


My Little Black Star

by automaticheartache



Category: American Horror Story
Genre: AHS, Backstory, Character Study, Cordelia Foxx - Freeform, F/F, Femslash, Misty Day - Freeform, coven - Freeform, foxxay - Freeform, goodeday, longform, raulson - Freeform, slight stray from canon, w|w
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-06-28
Updated: 2016-09-27
Packaged: 2018-07-18 21:38:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 26,730
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7331530
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/automaticheartache/pseuds/automaticheartache
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Misty day grows up a wild snake-charmer in Louisiana's evangelical backwoods. Cordelia Goode is a straight-laced over achiever with the weight of the Supremacy pushing her forward. When the two meet in a flurry of books and possible head-injury, their lives become intertwined in ways neither could predict. Pre-canon, then bleeding into the season and beyond.  </p><p>Eventual Misty/Cordelia relationship. An in-depth backstory and lead up for both Misty and Cordelia. Why they are who they are and how they come together, with obvious embellishments made along the way. Assume the cannon universe, with a few changes here and there. Warnings, characters, and age restrictions to be updated as needed as the story progresses.</p><p>ON INDEFINITE HIATUS</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Louisiana Snake Charmer

Her mama was a stern, no-nonsense woman, tireless and hard working. Misty could close her eyes and feel the roughness of the woman’s hands as they rubbed dirt from her face, with little success. Through the black depths of memory, she could pull visions of her mother’s furrowed brow, creasing and folding in exasperation, but never around the eyes. There had not been enough laughter in the woman’s life to warrant a crinkling around the eyes. 

This is not to say her mama wasn’t kind. Though she was a rough-hewn woman, her mama was unquestionably good and occasionally warm. There were times when Misty could wrap her arms tightly around herself and feel the whisper of remembered warmth, the safety of being held in those strong arms, the color of burnished leather. Her mama’s skin was warm to the touch and worked over by the sun til it adopted a permanent copper tone that refused to fade, even in the dark winter months. Misty would often pull her sleeves up and compare her pale porcelain arms to her mama’s wondering if she’d ever earn such a richness of pigment. 

She never did, despite her days working in the glare and the heat; the fleeting kiss of the sun left her just like everything else. Her skin would brown and then the toasted hue would fade almost instantly, the only proof of her toiling would be the callouses and cake of mud clinging to the hem of her skirts. Her body’s refusal to bronze was just one more way she’d never be like her mama. Her body’s refusal to die was another.

Her daddy was a preacher and he raised Misty on a healthy diet of fear and wrath of the Almighty. He was all hellfire and brimstone and she wanted little to do with such aggressive ministrations. Misty was a daughter of the earth, like her mama, and she had little care or desire for the fire of her father’s words. She refused to believe that a God who made things like soft Spanish moss and the cicadas that sang her to sleep could ever punish someone for things like saying or wearing the wrong thing or loving the wrong person. 

But each Sunday, her daddy railed against the threats and ills of modern life and spat verse at his congregation who whooped and hollered their approval. It made Misty’s skin crawl and instilled in her a constant undercurrent of fear for not only the Almighty, but her father as well. He would loom larger than life in his pulpit, the sweltering heat of his tent making the air thin and Misty’s head would spin. His face would redden until it matched his ginger beard and he would point to the sky then draw God’s judgment down to his congregation in great sweeping gestures. It terrified Misty in ways she couldn’t name and though she loved her daddy, her fear of his proselytizing and, by extension, him, grew a little each day.

She hadn’t known it at the time, but her mama felt the same and when Misty was 12, the woman up and left their family home in the dead of night, leaving no word. It had been mercilessly derisive and traumatic. Misty felt as if she were suddenly missing a limb, like a part of her had been cut away. The hole in her heart was gaping and refused to heal. She would cry herself to sleep at night over the loss of the person who was supposed to love her unconditionally, only stifling her sobs when the door to her room creaked open and she could see the shadowy face of her daddy in the dwindling light. Her fear over incurring his wrath superseded her need to mourn the absence of her mama. She spent months sleeping on a tear soaked pillow before she could settle without wringing herself out.

Things were tense with just the two of them, her silent smoldering father and Misty, a wisp of a girl, perpetually dirt stained and full of wonder. They had so little in common, and the thread that had once connected them had vanished, quite literally overnight. They moved around each other in tentative circles, sometimes going days without uttering a word. This uncomfortable dance continued on a pace until Misty unwittingly proved herself useful, a vessel for the Lord’s power here on earth.

The day had been unseasonably hot and the cloying discomfort of her daddy’s silent pacing round the house had forced Misty to take to the outdoors. They lived on a modest piece of land slightly southeast of New Orleans proper, bordered by the outskirts of the city on one side and the sweet humidity of swamplands on the other. Misty opted for the swamps and set out, determined to find a bit of freedom. This day was like most others: expelling herself from the oppressive house had become expected at this point. The one thing setting this particular day apart was that it happened to mark the beginning of her 13th year. Her father had remained resolute in his stoicism, praying over their morning meal for, what Misty felt, hours. No mention of her birthday, certainly no mention of her mother. 

How Misty longed to see her mama, to know where she’d gone. It wasn’t as if the severity of her childhood had been relieved by her mother’s presence, but it had seemed less stifling to have her there. If nothing else, it helped to drink up some of her daddy’s intensity. She also understood the few fleeting moments of tenderness she had clung to, so desperately, were gone and she never felt more alone.

Every once in a while Misty would meet another child from her daddy’s parish and she hoped it would relieve the ache of isolation, but they all seemed so stone-faced, their parents often clicking their tongues at Misty’s less than puritanical presentation and decided lack of propriety. They were all drab colored clothing from some depression-era bargain bin and slicked dark hair, limp with pomade whereas Misty was all light and layers of warm color. The children often gawked with narrowed eyes and the parents pulled at their shoulders, clucking as she passed by. They were sympathetic to the challenge this wide-eyed, waif of a daughter must present to their preacher, but he had the Almighty on his side and she would soon come to heed the call.

For all her father’s fire and her mother’s stern passivity, neither had ever truly attempted to stifle or quell Misty’s sense of wonder. She had been permitted to run wild, as long as she sat quietly for sermons and prayer and did what she was asked with no complaint. Wild, but not willful, she was always the first to lend a hand, to put her shoulder to the wheel and take up the task at hand. She was defiantly cheerful, full of life in the face of straight-laced cynicism, and was blissfully unaware of the gift of freedom she enjoyed. It flew in the face of everything her parents stood for, but they could not see fit to cage her. 

Her mama, in her own way, fostered Misty’s love of the earth, the joys of dipping her hands in fresh earth and coaxing new life from the most stubborn of seeds. She took silent, straight-faced pleasure in the flicker of her daughter’s eyes and squeals of delight when a bud flowered or bulb took root. She saw her child grow like wheat, golden and willowing and it inspired a mix of joy and fear, but through it all she could not bring herself to thresh the stalk and disappeared before she may have had the chance.

Misty’s daddy, for his part, saw in her one of the Lords untouched wonders – a pure soul unburdened by sin and full of light. In spite of his pedagogical grounding in doctrine, he could still recognize the light of the divine when it was presented to him and he could not bring himself to hide that light under a bushel, so to speak. In fact, it was his eventual belief that God’s will for him to share that light with the world

On this day, mid-morning on her 13th year, Misty picked through the tall grasses and slipped carefully through barbed wire into the swamp at the edge of their property line. She could still see the tent-top of their makeshift church and was seeking out something a bit more organic. She found the worn trail she had carved out for herself over the years and wound through the trees, heavy with Spanish moss and teaming with life. Misty reached her destination and settled in at the base of a large tree. She traced its roots idly, humming to herself as she allowed herself this moment of solace. She loved to follow each root, eyeing it as it spread like a giant web, weaving in and out of the ground, twining with those of other trees and dipping into the murky depths. She could almost feel the hum of life when she placed her palms flat to the base of the cypress tree and had the sneaking suspicion that her tree might be just one spindle of the many-spoked swamp.

A slight breeze pushed the moss and Misty looked up from her fingers, breathing a tentative sigh before something caught her eye. She cocked her head and narrowed her eyes. She couldn’t be sure, but she could swear there was a girl, crouched low at the far edge of the swamp, her swamp. There’d never been anyone else out here in all the time she spent curled at the base of her cypress tree, but she could definitely make out the form of a young girl, swathed in black, dipping her fingers into the dark swamp waters. 

Misty braced herself and pushed up from her seated position and side-stepped an errant root, inching around the water, straining to get closer to the girl. She knew how to move quietly through the trees, inching along without rousing the gators or rustling the leaves. She knew this sacred place did not belong to her and took care not to disturb its residents. She managed to pick her way across the swamp until she was no more than 20 feet from the other girl. Misty didn’t recognize her from their parish and decided to watch for a moment, rather than barreling in and startling the intruder. 

The girl had long white-blonde hair, plaited into a loose braid that snake over her left shoulder as she bent over the water’s edge. She wore a prim black high-necked blouse with no sleeves and a neat velour, A-line skirt. Her single-strap shoes were polished and Misty wondered why on earth someone like this would be traipsing through a swamp. The girl lifted herself gently from the water’s edge and Misty almost gasped before clapping a hand over her mouth. The girl, who couldn’t be much older than Misty, herself, was lovely, like a picture in a magazine one of the boys had shown her before her father confiscated it and the boy’s parents threatened him with the lash. 

Her features were soft and warm, rosy pink and slightly flushed from the effort of reaching down to the water’s level. The girl reached into the pocket of her skirt and drew out something Misty couldn’t see, she stepped forward for a better look and heard the tell-tale snap of a twig underfoot. The girl’s head shot up and Misty found herself suddenly pinned by the coffee black eyes of a stranger. A sharp intake of breath and the girl twitched involuntarily. Misty took another step forward and the girl leaned back slightly, a rabbit about to run.

“Wait!” Misty called, extending a hand forward, her mother’s bracelets tinkling lightly, catching the sun through the branches. “Please.”

The girl stood still, wary, and Misty took another step forward. Suddenly the girls seemed to ripple and snap! She was gone. A flash of black in Misty’s peripheral vision caused her to turn her head in time to catch the image of the girl once more. Misty turned toward her and started running in her direction when the girl shimmered and disappeared once more. Misty stopped and took a shallow, silent breath. She heard a slight rustle over her right shoulder and turned her head slightly to catch the girl out of the corner of her eye. She was dipping something into the swamp before fading out of view once more. Misty whipped around and broke into a run.  
She didn’t know why it was so important for her to pursue this girl, but she couldn’t seem to help herself. She felt her blood pump as she ran toward where the girl had just been, she could feel her face go flush and her heart started to race as she caught sight of the girl far ahead of her. 

Then suddenly she felt a sharp pain in her calf and she faltered and tripped. Fire suddenly spread through her left leg and she crumpled, tangled in roots and earth as the searing pain crept up her leg and branched out to her limbs. She released a wretched sound, a choked sob, and stared blankly up at the endless lattice of green above her. She wanted to fold in half and claw at her leg, to see what had happened, but she couldn’t move. The pain was coming in waves now and spreading fast. She new it could be only one thing: venom. Through all her careful treading she must have neglected her step and threatened some creature or another and now she could practically feel the thickening of tainted blood in her veins. 

She was vaguely aware of the tears pooling, spilling from her eyes and prayed, actually prayed, that she’d pass out soon if only to end this unbearable pain. The corners of her vision started to darken and close in on her, her world collapsing in on itself. Before her vision completely failed, she saw a flash of gold and deep brown and black that wasn’t of her own making. She felt her body shift and move, and felt the low hum of vibration against her shoulder as someone spoke soft and low. Maybe her daddy was right and the Lord Jesus had come to lift her to heaven, to save her from the pain of this fire in her veins. She sighed and gave herself over to the divine, collapsing into the arms of her savior and finally letting go.

She awoke with a start, sitting shock straight up, sucking in as much oxygen as her lungs would allow. She was in a dark room and as her eyes adjusted, she recognized it as her own room in her family home. How had she gotten here? The last thing she remembered was the fire, and her savior carrying her to her end of days. She balled her fingers into a fist, giving them a cursory squeeze, rotating her wrists. No fire, no poison. She pushed back the covers and swung her legs over the edge of her bed, running her hand down her calf, over two small puckered scars ghosting over where she had felt the initial pinch. She had been bitten and fallen in the swamp but – she was home and alive? How long had she been asleep? She ran her fingers over the scars, now only slightly raised. Time was the only thing that would heal a wound like that, so how much had she lost?

She suddenly remembered the girl in the swamp. The pursuit of whom had brought about Misty’s own mis-step and potential end. Had she been a ghost? The girl moved so fast and so strangely. Had Misty imagined the whole thing in some venom-induced fever-dream? 

Misty pushed herself, gingerly, up from the bed and was surprised to find that she felt relatively little stiffness in her muscles, nothing more than what may be brought about by a solid night’s rest. She crossed to the mirror a few paces away and raised the hem of her night gown to inspect the scarred flesh of the bite-mark and gasped to see not one, but seven separate pairs of fang marks across her calves. How was she still standing? Seeing the bite marks, she instinctively knew they were made by a Water Moccasin, one of the most dangerous venomous snakes native to her swamp. A single bite could kill a full-grown man, if untreated, and could occasionally leave him without the use of the affected limb, but here she stood, with multiple fang marks. A mere girl of 13, now, and no worse for wear. She raised herself up on her toes and felt the pull of her calf muscles lift her without pain. Strange.

She crossed the threshold of her door and pulled it open. Her father was sitting at the table, holding his forehead in one hand, his crumpled hat in the other. He looked exhausted and older than Misty had ever seen him. She approached him tentatively and felt him jump and stagger as she placed a hand on his shoulder.

“You--,” He stumbled up from his chair and caught himself. “How? I thought—,” she watched as her daddy choked on each sentence before it could be completed. Then he fell silent and fell to his knees, grasping her hands in his. “The doctor came and went, he said you were lost to us.”

Misty crinkled her nose as her father clutched desperately at her hands.

“That girl brought you back here… you’d already left us, though. It was all we could do to lay you out. Then the doc came and said you’d gone up to the Almighty.”

“I did, Daddy! I felt him take me up, he had me in his arms and took my pain.”

“But how are you here?” 

Misty could only shrug and stroke the side of his face as he sobbed and held her hand in his.

“It’s a miracle.” He blubbered into her palm.

***************

“A miracle! Heed now the Lord’s will, here on earth you sinners! See how a soul, purified by the Almighty can withstand even the icy grip of death” Misty watched as her father bellowed at his congregation. 

That was her cue. 

She peered over the bucket of writhing, twisting black bodies and fished out a particularly feisty looking Cottonmouth. She held it for a moment, staring into the pin-yellow eyes as they both swayed a bit, snake and girl. She slackened her grip and the viper wound its way up from Misty’s wrist to curl around the warmth at the nape of her neck. It settled for a moment and Misty closed her eyes tight as her father delivered a quick shock to the beast and it instinctively bit into the soft flesh at Misty’s pulsepoint. This happened several more times and the fire tore through her veins, like it had so many times now. 

She tried to push the pain from her body, tried to lift her spirit from its earthly vessel as the blackness swallowed her up. She knew that her father would set the timer for six minutes, at which point the doctor would come and declare her dead and her father would invite an onlooker or two to check Misty’s pulse, once the snake had been safely confined, of course. After the crowd was satisfied that they had indeed watched a young girl succumb to a several fatal snakebites, her father would place the foul smelling salts under her nose and her body would lurch back to life. The poison: somehow gone, her muscles: still strong, her blood: pumping, healthy and untainted. Her father would help her to her feet, raising her arms up to the Almighty and watch as each revival member gawked and gaped at the wild little snake charmer who had cheated death more than a dozen times now before breaking out into a never-ending praise chorus that overwhelmed her senses and set her reeling.

Misty Day would die many more times before she could manage to take them all with her.


	2. Samples and Saviors

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> While collecting samples for her studies, Cordelia Goode encounters a strange girl and triggers a series of events that snowball out of her control.

“Cordelia Goode, you cease this infernal racket right this instant!”

The gangly teen stomped her way up the stairs in a heated rush, pushing Lindsay Perkins a bit too hard and earning a series of loaded looks and rolling eyes. She rounded the corner at the top of the stairs and called back over her shoulder, “Can’t. Super busy! Sorry Auntie Myrtle.”

Myrtle snorted, incredulously. “Never too busy for me, Delia, dear,” she huffed under her breath as she watched Cordelia slip around the corner at the top of the stairs. 

Cordelia barreled down the hall, burst through her door and slammed it behind her, leaning on it to catch her breath. That was a close call; she couldn’t afford a chat with Auntie Myrtle right now, her erstwhile caretaker being the Guardian of Veracitude in the Vernacular and Cordelia being the newfound guardian of a fairly serious secret. She slid down the back of the door and pressed the heel of her palms into the hollow of her eyes. How could she be so stupid? 

She didn’t do it on purpose. She didn’t. Cordelia tried to steady her beating heart and slow her breathing, allowing oxygen to reach her brain, something she must’ve been seriously lacking over the last few hours. 

The exasperated teen drew her hands back from her face and realized she still had flecks of dried blood in the creases across her palm. She rose, steadying herself and crossed calmly to the washbasin near the dresser. She was thankful, in times like these, she had managed to swing one of the large, solitary rooms at Madame Robichaux’s. Many of the girls had to share and some in rooms not nearly as spacious. But her mother was the coven’s Supreme, if in nothing but title. Plus Auntie Myrtle had sway as well, for that Cordelia was grateful. 

She watched as the flecks of red swirled and dissolved in the clear water, tinting it a slight pinkish brown. 

She hadn’t meant to be seen. She just needed some swamp water for her work and hadn’t expected the afternoon to take such a drastic turn. 

Cordelia had crouched low, poised over the tangled tree roots, trailing her fingers in the murky water. She had every reason to believe there were gators in the swamp, but she couldn’t help the desire to touch the water, almost black and fathomless. It called to her in a strange way that she couldn’t explain and she had to have some. She initially came to the swamp to gather samples for a project at the university, but ended up wanting some for her own alchemical studies as well. 

Cordelia relished when her academic life and her magical life overlapped. She had graduated high school at 15 and was almost finished earning her double degree in 19th Century Literature and Environmental Sciences from Tulane, which for any other 18 year old would be a proud accomplishment. For Cordelia it was all she could do to try and impress her mother, who was convinced that she was useless magic-wise and for whom academia held little pomp. As far as Fiona was concerned, Cordelia was a waste. Of space, of air, of magic, of Fiona’s prime years, at least the few she had spent on Cordelia before dropping her off at Madame Robichaux’s. 

Myrtle was always encouraging though, believing Cordelia had some untapped greatness in her and fostering a love of all things, not simply magic. She encouraged the young girl to push her self academically and alchemically, grammatically and artistically, musically and scientifically. Cordelia, whose only magical skill seemed to be the brewing of potions and various draughts that could hurt or heal with an almost flawless success rate, dedicated herself to achievement in no uncertain terms. She would be of value to someone, anyone. Hopefully she’d helped that girl from the swamp today, even a little, though it was most likely her fault the girl needed help in the first place. 

Cordelia had never lost control like that before. She had reached into her pocket to grab another phial for the swamp water when she heard a small snap! As she looked up, her eyes met those of a small willowy girl, long curling hair, a mess of what looked like scarves woven into a makeshift dress. Cordelia froze, she wasn’t supposed to be here, she wasn’t supposed to be in this territory at all; this part of the swamp was over the boundary lines drawn up a generation before. She flinched under the scrutiny of the curly-haired girl whose blue-eyed gaze was oddly penetrating. Cordelia cocked her head slightly and detected a faint glow around the girl. Could that be right? She practically radiated… what? Life? Power? The thought flustered Cordelia and she shook her head only to realize that she had, without meaning to, transmuted across the swamp a couple dozen feet. 

The girl was small, far away now. And Cordelia’s panic mounted slightly. She had never even attempted transmutation, how was it that she was suddenly able to accomplish it now? She balled her fists and tried to concentrate on moving once more, to no avail. The girl was approaching again and Cordelia panicked, shimmered slightly, and blinked out of sight. 

This was horrible! Not only was she not supposed to be here, she was actively using magic in front of a stranger! What if this girl told someone? No one would believe her, Cordelia was fairly certain. But still, how could she have such disregard for her own safety? How could she so carelessly put herself, and by extension her coven, at risk?

The young girl was relentless in her pursuit, running now, toward Cordelia who realized her need to leave, but not before taking a final sample of the water that initially drew her here. She shimmered out of sight once more, unintentionally, only to be greeted by the sight of the golden girl coming for her, full tilt. 

Suddenly, the girl faltered, seemed to trip and fall as a scream ripped through the swamp. Cordelia snapped out of her self-deprecating reverie and started making her way toward the girl, now writhing slightly, silently.

A black snake curled near the girl’s feet, half its body disappearing in the nearby water, there was what looked like a nest or hole nearby, the girl must have stepped directly in it, as most Water Moccasin wouldn’t strike a human unless directly threatened. Cordelia sidestepped the snake, uttering a charm under her breath for safety, and pulled the girl away from the viper. She had been bitten several times, which was odd in and of itself. Pit vipers struck based on heat and usually just once. This girl had somehow incurred an obsessive wrath from this singular serpent and was now losing her tenuous grip on life. Cordelia scooped the girl into her arms, ignoring the blood staining her skirt as it dripped, poisonous, from the wounds on the girl’s legs. 

She tried to clear her mind and focus on pushing herself out of the swamp, feeling the girl’s body slacken and slowly go limp in her arms. Nothing happened.

“C’MON!” Cordelia screamed to the heavens. She needed this right now, she needed this tiny win. She gripped the body in her arms, whispering soothing sounds and radiated determination. She slammed her eyes shut and willed her body to be elsewhere with everything she could muster. 

And in a blink she was standing in a field of tall saw grass a few yards from a large white revivalist tent, a modest house stood several yards beyond that. She buckled at the knees and pulled the golden girl into her lap. She lifted a small pouch from a cord around her neck and tapped some herbs into her cupped hand. She spat, unceremoniously into her palm, thankful no one could see this less than proper display, and rubbed the herbs into a viscous paste. She pushed small bits of paste around the girl’s wounds hoping to quell the bleeding. Cordelia tilted the girl’s head up toward her own, eyes glossing, lighting momentarily on the dusting of freckles over the bridge of the girl’s nose and held a tentative finger above her paling pink lip, checking for breath. It came shallow and thin, and Cordelia knew she didn’t have much time.

The girl felt like a two-ton sack of flour, all tension released from her limbs and Cordelia strained to stand and lift her once more. If she could stagger toward the small house not too far off, they might be able to find some help. Cordelia was unsure her legs would be able to carry her and the girl more than a few steps so she cradled the stranger in her arms and focused on moving them toward the house. She closed her eyes and steadied her breathing, feeling the weight of responsibility for another human life settle into the hollow of her chest. She opened them again and found herself on the doorstep of the small homestead. 

She drew the girl closer and kicked the door, hoping whoever lived her would forgive her rudeness. A tall man in stark black clothing and white starched collar answered the door, his blond hair fell in short waves and flame-red beard framed his stony face. His eyes widened at the sight of the girl in Cordelia’s arms. 

“Misty! What happened?” he reached forward and easily lifted the girl from Cordelia’s arms as if she were made of feathers.

“I found her in the swamp. I think she’s been bitten.” Cordelia wrung her hands, lingering at the threshold as the man crossed into the house to lay the girl, Misty, on the nearby sofa. She was oddly uncomfortable at the absence of weight in her arms and, suddenly, acutely aware of a strange pulling sensation in her chest, as if the small girl had her own center of gravity.

“If I’ve told her once, I’ve told her a thousand times, that swamp’s no place for a girl to spend her days.” The man busied himself around, positioning the girls legs, noting the blood with mild horror, and crossing to the phone. He punched a few numbers before drawing the receiver to his face, “Hey Judy, it’s Hawthorne, is the doc available to come out, it’s an emergency? Now.” He placed a large hand over the receiver and turned back to the doorway, only to find it empty.

Cordelia had blinked and found herself at the edge of the dusty road back to the city. 

“No!” she cried. She hadn’t meant to transport herself from the house, away from the situation she’d tangled herself into. She spun around, frenzied, looking for any sign of where she was, toeing the line of a dirt road, mere feet from the main street that ran the length of the swampland border. She could see the cypress trees in the distance, but had no idea how she could get back, back to Misty and the stoic preacher in the little house. She tried her hand at transmutation, failing attempt after attempt before heaving an exasperated sigh. What could she do? She’d done all she could already, but couldn’t help the gnawing sense of guilt co-mingled with responsibility for the young life she’d cradled in her arms. 

Misty. 

She thought of the girl, of her glow. Cordelia remembered how heavy Misty had become in her arms, the lightness literally draining from her. Cordelia couldn’t help but worry. There was a doctor on the way and the girl was in capable hands. She tried to comfort herself with this thought, steeling her nerves. Besides, she didn’t even know this girl. She did what she could and the rest would unfold as it was meant to. 

Cordelia sighed and resigned herself to walking along the main road until she could find a payphone and call the car. Perhaps she could talk Florence Kinney into divining for her. She’d have to buy a pack of cigarettes to bribe Florence and maybe duck Auntie Myrtle for a few hours, but it would be worth it to know that everything was all right.

Now, safely tucked back in her room, water dripping from her fingers, Cordelia was finally able to breathe. She heard a light rap on the door and clutched at a pristine white towel hanging next to the basin.

“Is everything all right, little bird?” a small voice crept through the cracks in the door.

It was Myrtle, checking on her. Cordelia took a deep breath, crossed to the door, stalling slightly with her hand on the knob, then pulled it open.

“As far as I know, everything’s fine. I’m sorry for being so abrupt.” Cordelia did her best to smile at the woman before her. 

Myrtle Snow was a woman of considerable influence whose reach was only exceeded by her infamously strange sensibility. Fashionably odd, the woman swept into the room, and Cordelia watched the woman’s eyes slide over every edge therein.

Myrtle was smoking a cherry red Fantasia cigarette, tucked into her long cabriolet, and held by a pair of lime green calfskin gloves. The rest her outfit was a wash of black fabrics in various textures, ticked with brightly colored damask-style embroidery. Her shocking red hair was restrained more than usual and Myrtle stared at the girl through flared cat-eye glasses, trimmed in silver filigree.

“I trust your trip was… enlightening.” Myrtle raised a curious eyebrow.

“Very.”

Myrtle’s eyes fell on the water basin and it’s dingy contents.

“Delia, are you quite alright?”

“I will be, the swamp was more stressful than I was expecting and I’ll admit, it’s taken a bit out of me.” She noted how Myrtle’s eyes lingered over the basin, then rested on the matted plush of her velour skirt. Cordelia had forgotten the blood that must’ve dried there. Thankfully her skirt was, unsurprisingly, black and therefore the blood was indiscernible from any number of things that could have found their way there “I must’ve brought a bit of it back with me as well.” She paused. “I’d very much like to clean all of this off me before, perhaps, taking in a late lunch?”

Cordelia had been, more or less, raised by the flame-haired witch before her and learned long ago how to speak in half-truths and almost-lies so that she could maintain her privacy without detection. Myrtle was, after all, a gifted witch, whose talent was perceiving deception. Cordelia skirted this talent by telling the truth, but her truths were usually ambiguous and housed multiple meanings that only she, herself, could divine.

“Of course, darling girl. I can’t imagine what manner of flora or fauna could have enticed you into that craven swamp, but I’m happy to give reprieve to wash it all away.” She watched Myrtle flit back through the door. “When you’ve finished, maybe we can go over your latest draught for Quentin, he’s feeling a bit under the weather, dear, and you know how your concoctions never fail to lift his spirits.”

Cordelia nodded primly and followed Myrtle to the door, closing it quietly behind her. She had managed her deceptive encounter without incident.

She worried over her bottom lip and found her way into the bathroom, flicking the tap in the shower. Steam rose and lightly filled the room as Cordelia peeled off layers off clothing. 

She was anxious to wash this day away. 

Somewhere in the back of her mind, though, she knew that he events of the morning would stay with her and, potentially, inform her future.


	3. Botanical Distraction

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Misty escapes her solitary existence only to be accosted.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a shorter one and will have a follow-up shortly. Thanks so much to those of you who have commented and followed this story. Feedback is always welcome!

The New Orleans Public library was strangely busy for the middle of a Wednesday afternoon. Misty supposed all the students were inside, trying to escape the muggy Louisiana heat. She, herself, sought refuge in the library, wedged between two tall shelves with a small stack of books pushed against her side, trying to avoid being eaten alive. The mosquitoes on the bayou had become absolutely insufferable and she was looking for extra-curriculars that didn't involved being drained of all blood and scratching like a mad woman for the next several days.

She had settled in the botany section, legs stretched across the aisle, having found a new book that looked to be right up her alley. Misty leafed through it and decided to take it home with her, rather than starting it here. She often spent hours reading books cover to cover, curled up in the stacks or sprawled across the small upholstered chairs that littered each floor. Today, however, Misty wasn't sure she could muster the concentration to start on a new book. She was distracted and while the library provided some solace, she still didn't have the wherewithal to dedicate her mind to a singular train of thought for too long.

She'd spent a lot of her time hiding out in places like the library since her daddy died. She hadn't had anyone to take her in after he passed and she supposed she was old enough to care for herself, so she decided to live in a small shack on the bayou that had been tithed to the parish some years back. It was small and isolated, the latter for which she was both grateful and sad. She longed for companionship, but her need for seclusion superseded her need for contact.

She knew that it was smarter for her to stay away from the city, away from people who might recognize her, since she was, technically, legally, dead. But every once in a while, the loneliness was unbearable and she found herself sitting in the middle of a library, a bus terminal, a park; simply sitting where people idly milled about. She didn't even need to talk to anyone, she just needed to feel their energy, needed to know for certain that she wasn't truly alone to prevent her mind from spiraling into madness.

Even before he died, along with the rest of his flock, Misty's father had kept her in almost complete isolation, claiming that someone touched by God, as she was, didn't get to just go "skipping off" to play.

"But daddy, even Jesus had disciples, friends. Gosh! He at least had Mary Magdalene to talk to!" she whined at him, straining to sit up after a particularly taxing resurrection.

Their congregation had been growing as word of mouth regarding Misty's strange ability grew. She was no less wild, but she was still, to her father's good fortune, a pleaser, so she obliged him and played the part. Every Sunday, in their sweltering tent, she died with fire in her veins and every Sunday she was brought back "by the will of the Almighty." Misty wasn't so sure it was the Lord's doing, as even he wouldn't condemn her to suffer this torment week after week, year after year, but she was too scared to consider where else this strange power might have originated.

"I did NOT just hear you compare yourself to our Lord and savior just so you could go make friends!"

"No, I mean yes, but… that's not what I meant!" Misty backtracked, slightly.

"Look, honey," he drawled, "I know it can't be easy to have this… gift, but you got to understand how important you are. God chose you. And he gave you to me for a reason." Her father raised a hand to her face, allowing it to hover an inch from her cheek. She longed for him to make contact, to reassure her, but he dropped his hand and crossed to the door. "You have a sacred duty and that takes precedent over everything. You're not a little girl anymore! You're something…"he paused at the threshold, "Something holy." And with that he closed her door and locked it behind him. She remembered sleeping fitfully that night, just one of many nights spent swimming in darkness and fire.

Her daddy and the entire congregation had died less than a year later and Misty, after some running and some grieving, was finally free to be less than divine. She was free after a decade of dying and she saw it as being given back to the earth. She relished her freedom to dig her toes into the dirt, to touch and be touched. To twirl, to listen to music, to tend a garden, to dress as she pleased. It was still lonely, but there was even something comforting in the fact that her loneliness stemmed from actual solitude. She would rather be lonely by herself than feel the constant longing for companionship while drowning in a sea of worshippers.

Misty curled into herself, having decided to leaf through an older book that she loved. She hefted it up from the stack and felt the spine breathe as she cracked the giant tome. It was an encyclopedia of plants and she had been diligently working her way through, little by little, each time she visited and took it in with hungry excitement.

The piece of land on the bayou had a small garden and she'd been combing the botany books learning all she could about what she could grow. Planting things deep in the earth and coaxing them to flower and fruit had become one of her great joys, a reminder of the beauty this world still offered and a sweet remembrance of her mother.

Misty was deep into the chapter on healing herbs when a book sailed down from somewhere above her head, clipping her shoulder and effectively shattering her concentration.

"Ouch! What in the name of all things great and small-?"

Misty frantically lifted her arms, dropping the dusty volume she had been skimming, to shield herself from the avalanche of falling books.

"Oh my goodness! I'm so sorry, are you alright?" a voice cried through a flurry of hands and pages, collecting the now scattered books. Misty, satisfied she had survived the deluge, lowered her arms and beheld a young woman bracing a few large hardcovers on the shelf above her while trying to fish up the copies that had crashed down upon her.

"S'alright." Misty pushed herself up from her seated position and gathered a battered copy of McKinnon's Modern Botany, brushing it off with care before handing it to the woman. "A little concussion never hurt no one." Misty quipped.

"Oh god, concussion! You could have a concussion!" The woman, a small handful of inches shorter than Misty, seemed to panic slightly. "Do you feel dizzy? Tired? Are you experiencing shortness of breath?" She rattled off symptoms while stretching to tuck books back onto the shelf, in their proper catalog order, Misty noted.

She took the opportunity to observe the woman, busied in her organizational distraction. She was tall and lithe, no more than 28 or so, with white-blonde hair falling in soft curls just above her shoulders. She wore a white blouse made of some sheer material, organza maybe. Misty was no expert, but she always liked that word: organza. She thought it sounded elegant, and on this woman, it certainly looked elegant, pooling softly at the crook of her elbow and at the waist of her black pencil skirt. She watched as the woman's fingertips grazed the spine of a particularly large volume, not quite able to push it back into place.

"Here, let me." Misty reached up and lightly pushed the book into place.

"Oh, that's – well, frankly, very kind, considering." The woman rocked back on her heels and leveled her eyes to Misty's. They were startlingly dark, a fathomless black, and yet, bright. Alive.

Misty fidgeted under her gaze, feeling suddenly exposed and underdressed. She reached for her books and satchel at her feet, gathering them awkwardly.

"You don't have to leave, er, I hope you're not leaving because of – I mean," the elegant blonde tripped lightly over her words. "I'm sorry I was so clumsy, but I hope you're not leaving because of it." The woman shifted the books in her own arms, Misty noted several botany books that she had already read, which piqued her interest in this new stranger.

The taller blonde shrugged and drew her braid from over her shoulder, twisting the ends in her fingers, still feeling slightly bare. There was an electricity in the air that she wasn't all-together comfortable. It wasn't bad, it was just, different. It was an almost pleasant dis-ease, if such a thing existed. She met the woman's eyes again and, this time, found them warm and smiling, disarming. "Nah," she offered, trying to come off as casual, charismatic, "I was getting' hungry and I'm at a good stopping place anyhow." Misty smiled and looked down at her hands.

"You were? Well, then, let me buy you lunch, it's the least I can do!"

Misty raised an eyebrow. This was awfully forward for a stranger, wasn't it? She hadn't had a lot of experience, but wasn't it? She could feel the ache of her heart struggle against the caution of her head. "Oh no, that's really not neces –"

"I insist!" The shorter woman cut her off and Misty met her eyes with a smile once again.

She had become cagey around strangers, and with her history, who could blame her? But Misty couldn't help the peculiar electricity and the even more curious feeling of familiarity she felt. She was the first to admit that her heart reached out for people far more than it should. She hadn't ever truly had warm companionship and was constantly seeking it out from people who inevitably burned her. Charlatans, thieves, and those seeking to exploit her, Misty, always so desperate for a connection, invited them in and let them take more than their due before she wised up. She knew she needed to wise up before inviting them in and Misty rested on this thought before tentatively accepting the woman's offer.

"Alright. I just have to make a stop first, then I s'pose we can get something." She cracked a tentative smile and her eyes shone, "I mean, if it'll make you feel better." At this the woman's face brightened considerably.

"Excellent! I'm Cordelia Goode!" she extended a hand toward Misty, the other clutching a sleek black bag to her side.

"M" Misty shook her hand, willfully ignoring the small spark that jumped when their hands met. "Um, like, the letter?" she offered, guarded.

"M," Cordelia continued to smile around her words. "Very mysterious. Like… Moriarty!"

Misty laughed. "Nothing as exciting as all of that, I promise."

"Well, M," Cordelia pronounced, pointedly, "Let's get some lunch, shall we?" Cordelia laughed lightly and offered Misty the crook of her arm. She hesitated, trying to gage the propriety of the situation, and trying to quell the familiar flutter in her stomach, before carefully linking her arm with Cordelia's and allowing herself to be escorted from the library.


	4. Chapter 4: Antique Friendship

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cordelia treats her new friend to lunch and can't shake the familiar feeling they've met before.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for keeping up and thank you for the terrific feedback, it means a lot!

"Delia, you're staring like some common fool." Cordelia suddenly heard her mother's voice echo in her head. She was staring, it was true, but that didn't mean she needed Fiona's voice raking across her sub-conscious. She watched, smile tugging at the corner of her mouth, as her newfound companion pawed through a bin of old 8-track cassette tapes.

The girl, M, who couldn't be more than a few years her junior, thrust her arm deep into the bin and rooted around before fishing out a tape, inspecting it carefully, as if it were a painting to be authenticated, before tossing it aside and repeating the process. Though the method was almost comical and absolutely ordinary, Cordelia felt strange watching, as if she were privy to something much more intimate. This didn't stop her staring, of course, but she did feel the proper amount of shame at the unabashed observation.

The taller girl had an airiness about her that Cordelia found strangely enchanting. She might even go so far as to describe her as folksy, though that impression might have been based solely on the accent. And maybe the clothing. The girl's wavy golden hair was pulled into a long, loose braid with a thin scarf wrapped around her head, like laurels, at her temples. It was messy, but seemed purposefully disheveled in such a way that denoted care rather than neglect. A collection of cords and strands of beads pooled around her collarbone disappearing under the neckline of her dress which was tiered and loose, the color of tea-stained linen and braced at the waistline with a wide belt of tooled leather. She wore tall brown motorcycle-style boots, dusty with a light coating of mud and Cordelia could almost make out tiny embroidered flowers along their seams. This was not Cordelia's typical company and she was vaguely tickled by this fact.

They had stopped at the library circulation desk first, so M could check out a few books, tucking them into her rucksack before slinging it over her shoulder.

"We're not too far from the French Quarter, if you'd like to find someplace there."

"Sure. I have to head over there anyway."

"Right, your errand." Cordelia recalled as they pushed open the double doors. The oppressive Louisiana heat hit them like a wall, dissipating slightly once their bodies adjusted. "We could take my car if you'd like."

The girl looked hesitant. "D'ya mind if we walk? I know it's hot, but it's not too far and I'd feel better on foot."

"Of course." Cordelia heard herself say as a nagging voice suddenly echoed in her head. Why are you even doing this? There was no reason she could call to mind that justified her following a strange Cajun girl through the streets of New Orleans in this heat. Even if she did feel guilt regarding the books falling on the poor girl, she realized that, objectively, this whole situation could come off a bit crazy. So why was she… excited? Giddy, almost. She felt bewitched, which she found utterly ironic. Cordelia had spent a total of ten minutes with this person and she was already certain she'd follow M all over town, if asked. She couldn't justify her actions and decided she didn't want to. She would see where the afternoon, and this strange girl, led her.

She led Cordelia, as it turned out, to an antique store off Royal Street. The shop was full to bursting with turn of the century French furniture, glassware, tatted lace, and other various odds and ends. Cordelia wandered aimlessly for a moment or so, conscious of M hovering slightly at her shoulder. She took an old rotary eggbeater from a peg-wall with dozens of other kitchen gadgets and gave it a cursory crank. The beaters spun, clacking noisily, and her companion giggled. It was a deep throaty sound that still managed to somehow sound like the ringing of bells.

"Thanks for, well, coming with me I guess?" M piped, crossing to the bin of tapes and diving in, "I know it seems silly, but if we hadn't stopped here, I wouldn't be able to focus on anything else all afternoon." She drew up a cassette, inspected it, wrinkling her nose, and tossed it aside. Cordelia ran her fingers over a light, moss-colored shawl, eyes darting from one small mountain of antiques to the next. She drew the shawl up and inspected it carefully. It wasn't really her style, but something about the open weave and the way its fringe slipped though her fingers spoke to her. She glanced up at M, digging away.

"What is it you're looking for? Might I be able to help?" Cordelia crossed to the table.

"I'm looking for Stevie." Cordelia raised an eyebrow. "Stevie Nicks. Mrs. Rothschild called me yesterday and let me know they got a new box of 8-tracks and since that's what I got at home, that's what I'm looking for."

Cordelia smiled, outright. "You use an 8-track player? That's the most adorable thing I've heard in weeks."

M quirked upright and knit her brows. "I don't know if I'd call it adorable. I was never really allowed music when I was little. I came into the player by chance and it works just fine, so why worry over something that's doesn't want my worrying anyhow?" she said matter-of-factly.

"You have a point." Cordelia conceded, blushing slightly at her previous condescension. "I suppose it's refreshing talking to someone who isn't obsessed with the new just because it's new. Everything keeps changing so quickly, it's nice to know some people can stay steady. It may not be adorable, but it is a bit," she paused, considering her words, "charming."

"Charming. I think I like that." The girl treated Cordelia to a radiant smile, all blue eyes and warmth and Cordelia felt something familiar kickstart behind her ribcage as the Cajun went back to her bin.

"Aha!" she shouted, triumphantly clutching a tape to her chest. Cordelia laughed at the glee on the braided blonde's face, she couldn't help it.

\-------------------------------------

"I think that shawl will look real nice with your complexion, Miss Cordelia."

Cordelia colored slightly, not sure whether it was the compliment or the honorary, being called 'miss,' that made her blush a deeper shade.

"I'm not sure about that, but I just couldn't leave it there." She trailed off slightly, "Don't know why." Cordelia sipped her sweet tea. They sat inside a small café, Cordelia had picked over a small salad while her companion had demolished a sizeable po'boy. "and you needn't call me 'Miss.' It makes me sound so…"

"Proper?" the girl offered, polishing off the last bit of her meal. "My parents raised me to be respectful, I s'pose it's just force a'habit. You're not old enough to call ma'am, but if you were, I'd call you that too."

Cordelia laughed at this.

They'd kept up easy conversation on the way over and through the meal, but she couldn't help feeling like she'd already wasted too much time eating in silence, she'd much rather talk. She wanted to feed this warm pulling sensation tugging at her chest, fill it with little insights and lazy drawls. "Why Stevie Nicks? What about her captivates you to the point of 8-track tape diving?"

"What about her?" the girl almost shouted. "Have you ever heard her sing?" Misty's eyes took on a soft focus and Cordelia stole another opportunity to survey her lunch companion, unnoticed. "Her songs just, y'know? I feel like they were written just for me. They tear up your soul and put it back together all at once. She sings and it hits ya! Right in the heart. Right in the center. Stevie's the White Witch, you know."

Cordelia choked on her tea momentarily, sputtering slightly at the designation. She had, in fact, met Stevie Nicks, at a concert she was unwillingly forced to attend. Cordelia had resolutely determined to have a terrible time, but after the first riff or two, she couldn't help falling in love. She felt the cosmic call of songs like "Rhiannon" and "Sisters of the Moon;" this woman understood what it was to have magic run through your veins. And furthermore, she understood what it was to feel powerful and powerless in the same breath. There was no doubt Stevie Nicks was a witch, but Cordelia wasn't used to hearing that sort of declaration outside of the Academy.

Cordelia coughed a few more times and felt a small spark when the girl across the table placed a concerned hand over her own.

"I'm alright, I'm alright." Cordelia wheezed. "And you're right. Her music…" she cleared her throat for good measure and straightened, "It's magic."

The girl across the table beamed. "I'm glad you think so. I don't think I could be friends with anybody who didn't like Stevie. She found me when I needed her most and helped put me back together when I was all to pieces."

Cordelia nodded, knowingly. She didn't know the girl's situation, but could relate to the sentiment. Music could be restorative, and lately, she'd needed her fair share of repair. Fiona sprang to mind, as if called, and Cordelia shivered involuntarily.

Her mother had outlived husband number two and flown back to New Orleans after the funeral, no doubt to begin cruising for husband number three. The Academy was always a bit fraught, full as it was with young women in the throes of their magical awakening while simultaneously fighting a war with adolescent hormones. Fiona's visit, however, threw the house into a state of utter chaos, which was now Cordelia's responsibility to defray.

Auntie Myrtle had accepted a seat on the council after her mother's neglect had left it and the other positions of power in a state of vacant disarray. Myrtle had nominated Cordelia to take over the care and running of Madame Robichaux's Academy and she had been unanimously confirmed, a fact in which she took a small bit of pride. She remembered Myrtle kissing on each cheek, saying, "There's no one I trust more than you Delia, dear. I know you will protect this coven and continue our work with poise and grace. I have every confidence in you."

"You always were a fool, Myrtle," a gravely voice lilted from across the room. From the shadows, a flame appeared and caught the end of a long, slim cigarette. "Your misplaced trust will be the downfall of us all, you old bat." Fiona stepped from the darkened corner and strode toward them, her face drawn in a smug sneer. Her black dress clung indecently and her heels were impossibly high as she came uncomfortably close and took Cordelia's face in her hand. She lifted the girl's chin as if inspecting the teeth of some show pony, squeezing harder than necessary before snatching her hand away.

Cordelia massaged her jaw, confident she'd find bruising there the next morning. She cut her eyes at her mother, swaggering away to sit on the arm of the nearby sofa. She had grown used to her mother's constant state of displeasure and disappointment – Cordelia had stopped reaching for the brass ring that was Fiona's approval long ago – but it still stung to have her mother so abrasively undermine her new authority.

Objectively, Cordelia recognized that her accomplishments, thus for, would be impressive, had they belonged to any other woman in the world. She'd earned a handful of degrees, traveled the world, published papers, garnered praise, and most recently, she'd had a hand in shaping the last class of witches to matriculate from Mme. Robichaux's Academy, and they were all doing incredibly well. She had made discoveries benefitting both the scientific and magical communities, and yet, standing before her mother, she was little more than a desperate, fragile thing who ruined everything she touched.

"Cordelia, try not to ruin the face I gave you with all that scowling." Fiona took a long drag on her cigarette. "It's bad enough you're going to sink this godforsaken ship, but I won't have you looking so dour while doin' it."

Cordelia chuffed, incredulous, and Myrtle straightened, drawing the cabriolet to her own lips and blowing a long stream of smoke in Fiona's general direction.

"I'll have you know that Delia is already doing famously. The girls love her." Myrtle challenged.

"What girls?" Fiona growled, shaking her head. "Our numbers are at an all-time low, our line is thinning, and not one girl who's passed through has shown even the slightest promise of being the new Supreme."

"Lucky for you." Cordelia threw off, her voice dripping venom.

"Lucky," Fiona let her head loll back and exhaled a thin line of smoke before tapping ash onto the pristine upholstery. "For now. Unlucky for you later." She thrust the lit end of the cigarette in Cordelia's direction.

Cordelia wasn't quite sure of Fiona's meaning. She relished the thought of a new Supreme, watching her mother's power fade as her body weakened and withered. She also understood the gravity of the position, the power and prominence. She couldn't help but hope for the day a new Supreme would rise and they'd finally have some order and maybe even find a woman who could lead them boldly into the future, mending Fiona's absentee reign of chaos and apathy. The Supremacy granted power, charisma, privilege, but it also carried the weight of the coven's future, which her mother had shirked entirely.

Cordelia determined, in that moment, she would not allow her mother to beat her down for taking on the responsibility Fiona so carelessly evaded.

"Miss Cordelia?" a voice cut through her reverie.

"Sorry," Roses bloomed in Cordelia's cheeks and she was pulled back to the current conversation, sitting across from the wide-eyed young woman. "I guess I was just stuck on a problem I might need Stevie's help to work through." She laughed

"What sort of –," the girl stopped herself. "I mean, I know you an' me are, well, strangers, but if you wanted to share the burden, I'm a real good listener." The Cajun lilted and Cordelia's skin warmed slightly, inexplicably.

"It's nothing really," Cordelia deflected. She raised her eyes to meet M's and was almost startled at their intense sincerety. The girl's eyes were a stormy sky, lined lightly with kohl, and seemed to see directly into Cordelia's soul. It would have been uncomfortable had there not been a certain sweetness to them too, hidden, but present just below the surface. "I've just taken on a lot of responsibility lately and even though I'm starting to feel like, I don't know, like a grown up? I still can shake this desire to earn my mother's approval," she paused, considering her next words, "which I know I'll never have."

The blue-eyed maven wove strands of hair from the tail of her braid around and around her fingers, nodding slightly. Her brows knit and Cordelia couldn't help the smile tugging at her lips; she's even cuter when she's concentrating, Cordelia couldn't stop herself from thinking.

"You know?" Cordelia interrupted M's focus, "I don't want to talk about my mother. I'd rather talk about something else, anything else! Why were you camped out in the botany section?" her companion brightened at the change in subject.

"Oh! That's my favorite place in the whole library! I could spend days there. I have spent days there." The girl straightened and became suddenly animated, a clockwork toy suddenly wound and whirling. "See, I've finally got this little patch of land all to myself and all I want is to see it overrun with growin' things. Just, busting, y'know? So I been reading everythin' I can get my hands on."

"What have you grown so far?"

"Not a whole lot. Flowers mostly."

Cordelia smiled at this, she loved the impracticality of growing flowers in this heat. She wondered how M managed to keep them alive, the heavy humidity having crushed so many of her own prized plants before she had moved back to the Academy and her beloved greenhouse. "What kind of flowers?"

"Mmmm…" She watched the wild blonde try and comb her memory. "I've got some nice Delphiniums that just started to bloom."

"For infinite possibility, and taking things one step at a time." This earned Cordelia a wide smile and the girl leaned forward, elbows displacing their long-forgotten dishes.

"Chrysanthemums?"

"Protection. Also," Cordelia looked playfully sly, "Magic and wonder."

"They're for Stevie then," the girl giggled, "And I just brought up some real pretty Asters that have taken to growing like weeds."

"Hmm," Cordelia hummed. "The Aster. Some people say the smell from their leaves, when burned, can keep away serpents." Her companion's face darkened momentarily, a passing cloud, or a nerve touched? Cordelia pressed forward, maybe she'd come back around to that thought later. "The Aster itself is a symbol of love and patience, though. So if they're growing for you, you must have both in spades."

At this, the girl demurred and ducked her head slightly.

"I do love my plants, that's true." Cordelia watched M tuck a piece of loose hair back into the band around her forehead, "I sing to 'em and talk to 'em. I'm mostly by myself, so they're my comp'ny. They don't seem to mind none."

Cordelia couldn't imagine this girl hiding her radiance from the world. Between the veiled allusions to some past hardship and this apparent isolation, she had so many questions for M. But it was starting to get late and she had stupidly forgotten about a previous engagement for which she would now be late.

"I wouldn't mind either, if I were them." She joked, more truth to the statement than she intended to betray, but the girl just laughed and carried on.

"What about you, Miss Cordelia? How do you know so much about my flowers?"

"Mmm, lots of studying, lots of school. But mostly a love of growing things too. I have a greenhouse at the Academy I run, and it's just mine. I mean, all the girls are free to use it, but I'm usually the only one who does."

"That sounds divine!"

"It is! Maybe sometime you could—"

An offensive ringing sound cut through their conversation and Cordelia glared at the offending object as she fished it from her bag apologetically. She rose from the table, motioning to M that she had to take the call.

Once outside, Cordelia slid her finger across the screen and the ringer fell silent.

"Hey, where are you?" the voice on the other end seemed rough and unpolished, nothing like the one she'd been treated to all afternoon.

"Hiiiii," she drew the word out unnecessarily. "I'm so sorry! I ended up getting lunch with a friend and must've lost track of time, sorry Hank."

"Where are you? I can come get you." She was horror struck at the idea of hank sweeping her away in his oversized pickup, not in the least because she was not currently interested in being swept away at all.

"No, no, that's alright. I'm not too far from the car, I'll wrap things up and see you soon."

"Okay, sounds good. I can't wait to see you, Milwaukee was a bear."

"Okay." She almost whispered.

"Cordelia?"

"Mmm?"

"I love you."

"Right. Me too."

She absentmindedly snapped her phone shut, suddenly aware that she had no desire to see Hank right now. They had been seeing one another for a few months. Initially, if she was being honest, it was mostly to gall her mother, but it had grown into something… pleasant. Hank was rough-shod, blue collar, but good looking, generally honest, and seemed to genuinely care for her. So why was she dragging her feet? She glanced through the open door of the café and caught sight of M reading, alone at their table.

The Botany of Desire. She was reading The Botany of Desire. Cordelia grinned and blushed. Why was she blushing? This woman was a stranger to her and yet she couldn't rationalize this hollow in her chest, the quickening of her pulse, the complete confidence that she somehow knew this girl. And what's more, she wanted to know her; know everything about her. She was folksy and beautiful and full of wide-eyed wonder. Cordelia marveled at what it might be like to feel so free. To have her own "patch of land." To be alone like that, not just simply feel alone in an academy full of people. But all of that would have to wait until next time – and she so desperately wanted there to be a next time. She re-entered the café and crossed to their table.

"Look, I'm so sorry, but I'm going to have to cut this short. I completely forgot I had plans."

"Aw, that's alright Ms. Cordelia. I've taken advantage of your kindness long enough and I can't be selfish." The girl tucked her book away and rose, slinging her bag over one shoulder.

"Oh please, be selfish. I've enjoyed it, thoroughly." Both women blushed, Cordelia laughed at her own boldness. She wasn't saying anything that wasn't true, she just supposed she wasn't used to speaking such bare truths.

"Maybe you could drop something on me again soon, then." The girl joked and her eyes twinkled with something Cordelia couldn't quite place. "I wouldn't mind the concussion, so long as it came with the promise of your company."

Was the young woman… was she flirting? Cordelia honestly couldn't tell. She wondered if the warmth and cheeky banter was born out of a lack of social practice or out of some sort of desire. She decided to put a pin in those thoughts and crossed with M to the door.

"Well, maybe next time we can skip the head injuries and go straight into the quality time." She fished around in her purse a moment. "Here's my card. Use it if you'd eve like to chat."

"Cordelia Goode, Ph.D, Headmistress," M read aloud, "Mme. Robichaux's Academy for Exceptional Young Women. Man! F'I'd known I was talkin' to someone so important –"

"Oh! Oh no. Not important. It's all just for show. No. I'm just Cordelia." She bit her bottom lip slightly as the girl, now inches from her, examined the card. "But it has my cell on it. Feel free to call. Anytime. Please."

"Alright… Dr. Goode." M bumped Cordelia's shoulder and Cordelia rolled her eyes.

"Okay, okay, that's enough of that. And to think, I was almost upset to leave. Almost."

They both laughed, good naturedly.

"I'll be sad for the both of us then." M said and Cordelia believed she actually might be. Impulsively, Cordelia pulled the girl into a quick, tight hug. Something burned in her belly and her heart started rattling loudly in her chest as they separated.

"Don't be too sad. I did almost kill you, that really bonds people together, M. And remember, you have my card, so I'll see you soon!" The girl smiled at her, but it didn't quite reach her eyes, as Cordelia turned to walk back up to where she'd left the car.

"No, you wont." The girl whispered to no one in particular as she exited the shop, walking in the opposite direction.

Cordelia had her back turned, retreating from the café, and so did not see the girl open her hand, letting the wind pick up the business card and carry it into the fading light of the Louisiana sky.


	5. The Fire of Saints

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Following Misty as she searches for answers and finds nothing but more questions and the flame.

The uncomfortable mattress creaked and sighed as Misty shifted to try and find a position she could settle into. She could feel a spring dig into her side and sighed softly into the night. It had been two years since she had left home and she still wished she could just go back home to the bayou, and her own bed, every single day, despite the progress she’d made. Her days were filled with questions and her nights were plagued by answers she never wanted. She shifted again and was shocked by the cold spot on the pillow; she hadn’t realized she’d been crying.

She closed her eyes and tried to work through all the steps that had brought her to this moment, and what was keeping her.

She thought of Cordelia often, that sweet stranger with kind dark eyes and familiar warmth. Misty had had so little contact with the outside world that the prospect of friendship overwhelmed her. Then, after they had spent a bit of time together, her undeniable, all-consuming desire to be near this woman scared her to pieces. She had never felt such a visceral connection to someone and wanted so desperately to bask in the glow of companionship. It wasn’t until Cordelia had stepped away that Misty thought objectively for a moment.

She didn’t exist. The papers had printed her name alongside those of their entire congregation after they had all been injected with the lethal cocktail her daddy had engineered. They were to be saved. They were to greet the Almighty with open arms, free of sin, and He was supposed to give them back to show His love, like He had done for Misty, countless times. They were the penitent, and now they were dust. Misty had been counted among the dead, and had fled the morgue as soon as the oxygen pushed faithfully back into her lungs.

How could she share herself with another person? Who would understand? Misty doubted there was anyone, but hoped that one day she might find them, whoever they were. She couldn’t be the only one made to suffer so. She longed to find others like herself, to find her tribe, like Stevie had.

Her love for Stevie had only grown in the time she’d spent on her quest for answers, the 8-track player being one of the few possessions she’d brought with her on the road. She’d scraped together some clothing, stuffing it and the tape player into a dusty carpetbag and started walking. Her feet kept falling one in front of the other and she barely knew what she was doing as she set out into the night.

It had only been a few hours since she’d left Cordelia when she had started following the road toward the sunset. She had let the business card fly from her hand, knowing she’d never truly be able to share her life with this woman, not in the way she wanted, open and honest. Misty couldn’t deny the chemistry she felt; the way Cordelia’s eyes fixed on hers made butterflies kick up in her stomach. The way just placing a hand on the other woman’s felt so strangely comfortable. She wanted so desperately to be kind to Cordelia, sensing she could use sweetness more than most. Misty knew that she could be the best friend Cordelia might ever have, she just knew it. But it was too much, too strong. The potential crash, the inevitable rejection, the assured devastation once her truth was discovered was greater than she thought she could bear.

When she had finally pushed open the door to her little sanctuary standing in the bayou, she felt so sick she might cry. She threw herself down on the bed. Was she doomed to spend her whole life too scared to be loved? She didn’t want to lie. She didn’t want to be... whatever it was she was. Sacred, cursed, a demon, a witch. Misty didn’t ask for any of it and it had completely consumed any chance she might have of finding someone, anyone, with whom she could truly be herself, laid bare.

She had to figure out what it was that made her this way. She had to know if there were others like her. She had to find her tribe.

She picked herself up off the bed and pulled a large satchel from under the bed. She hastily threw in bundles of clothes and other necessities. Misty new if she stopped to think about what she was doing, she’d lose her nerve. She knew that staying in this swamp, wiling away her time with nothing but her plants for company would drive her mad. If she didn’t leave now, she never would.

But where to start? She had never even heard of anyone who could do what she’d done. Most snake charmers win the crowd over by avoiding the venomous bites, showing the crowd the power of God’s protection as He shields them from harm. Misty took in the poison and was resurrected, that wasn’t nearly the same. She also doubted she’d find the answers she sought from God. She’d been raised to fear the Christian God and though she sat patiently every Sunday, she could never seem to understand that lesson. She had seen too much divine beauty to believe in nothing but its vengeance. Still, she doubted she would find answers in the dogmatic teachings of her father.

But what of the teachings of her mother? Misty’s mother had taught her how to bring a starving sapling from the brink of death and that was magic she could understand. Her mother had been gone for over a decade, but perhaps Misty could find what became of her. Maybe there was one person who might understand or at least provide her some comfort. Misty grabbed an old cigar box that rattled with letters and trinkets and thrust it into the bag, hoping that one of the letters she had sent her mother’s family, each one returned, unopened, might help her on her search.

She pulled all the windows shut, ensuring they were properly boarded and locked and after taking one last cursory glance around her home, she pulled the door closed behind her and started walking, without looking back.

Now, two years and hundreds of miles later, she had more questions than answers and a spring digging into her side while she tried to sleep. She had hitched from Louisiana to New Mexico, but found nothing but an abandoned house and a cold trail. From New Mexico, she made her way to Colorado, Oklahoma, through Arkansas, Tennessee, down to South Carolina, Georgia, Florida, and eventually back to Louisiana. Tonight she found herself in Lafayette, where she had been granted a bed, albeit an uncomfortable one, and a hot meal at the table of a preacher who reminded Misty of her daddy.

“You’re welcome to stay here long as you need, girl. This here’s a house of the Lord and we wouldn’t turn nobody away. Were you raised on the good book, girl?” The preacher looked over to Misty as she shoveled food unceremoniously into her gaping mouth. She took a moment to chew and swallow.

“Yessir. My daddy was a preacher, like you. I was raised with the Lord.” She shrugged a bit. “It seems I’ve lost Him these last few years, but I’m wonderin’ if He might find me again.”

Misty had never been a by-the-book Christian, much to her daddy’s chagrin, but she could feel divine presence when she settled down in the middle of a field and listened to the rustle of grass. When she dipped her fingers into newly overturned earth and felt the hum of life, there was surely some divinity there. In the breeze that rocked the trees, in the chirp of a cricket, the green shoots that pushed up from the earth.

The preacher looked at Misty with curious eyes, sweat clinging to his round face. His thick glasses fogged over occasionally from the late evening heat. He would take them off to clean them and pat his forehead where it met the a receding line of dark, curly hair.

“Well, we’ve got a revival meeting tomorrow. If you’re looking for the Lord and don’t mind snakes none, you’re likely to find him there.”

Misty blanched at the idea of being anywhere near a snake, but nodded quietly. She hadn’t been made to handle a serpent in over three years and was not anxious to do so again, but maybe she could find some divinity, some solace. Or at the very least, maybe she could get God to hear her plea and help her find her way.

Misty tossed and turned on the mattress once more for good measure, tucking an arm behind her head and finally drifting to sleep.

* * *

She rose at dawn, rinsing off in the washbasin in a darkened corner of the small room. She dressed in an eyelet lace shift dress, darkened by age and wear, and draped an eggshell colored shawl over her shoulders before exiting her room. Breakfast was a blur and she floated through the day, helping with dishes and other chores before piling onto a small pallet wagon pulled behind the shiny 1946 Ford pickup truck. It sputtered and pulled Misty and a few other parishioners to a clear, beautiful patch of land, dotted with trees and trod down from the bare feet of the devout.

She slipped down from the truck and crossed into the sun-soaked field, opening her arms wide, twirling lightly in the sun. Misty could almost feel the presence of something greater and it filled her with light. She felt a sudden, strange reconciliation, as if her body abruptly realized that this was where she was meant to be in this moment. She barely registered the gathering of the other parishioners. The beating of he bible had begun and they snake charmers were doing their dangerous dance.

Misty paid them little mind. Instead, she lifted her hands to the sky, drinking in the warm light of the sun. Her blue eyes shown clear, set in stark contrast to her pale skin. Then something pulled her focus. It was a flutter of the heart that caused her to turn away from the other worshippers and crouch low. She felt a pull, a call that felt strangely familiar, but like nothing she’d felt before. She bent down lower and beheld a small black and white finch.

She faltered a moment, unable to place the strange feeling that washed over her. She couldn’t shake her desire to cradle this stolen life, to comfort it as it left this plane, as no one had ever comforted her. She took the small, lifeless body into her hands and felt a wave of empathy crest over her. She could see something, or feel it rather; a spark somewhere in the middle of this tiny, dark death was the glimmer of life. It was mostly gone, but not completely.

Misty closed her eyes and tried to feel into that pinpoint glow, she pushed through the murk of rot and impending decay until she found the center, the small flame of life. She took a deep breath and pushed into the brightness, stretching it until it reached the edges of the darkness, burning it away. She felt warm, hazy, alive. She felt warm, surrounded by the spark she had willed into a bright flame. Her eyes snapped open, startled by the sudden rustling against her fingers.

Misty stretched her hands up to the sky and slid them open to reveal the finch, flustered, but full of life. It fluttered and fidgeted and she felt the cord between herself and the tiny bird sever abruptly as winged up and away from her open palms.

Misty felt the absence of the bird and sank into oblivion as the ground came up to catch her.

* * *

Misty awoke with a start as a the door to her room slammed open.

Without warning, she was wrestled from her bed by too many hands. They pulled and groped until she was free of the bed and dragged her violently from the room and refused to stop until she was prostrate on the patch of land in front of the house. The moon was high, but she couldn’t make out any of their faces in the dim light. They descended upon her once more and she was pulled further from the small house to a clearing with what looked like old farming equipment. She hadn’t stopped kicking and screaming all the while.

One man pulled her upright by her wrists as two others pinned her to the rusty metal contraption and a fourth bound her wrists above her head. A cold splash of water slapped across her face.

No.

Not water.

Oh Lord, the smell! It tasted like fire and made her eyes water. Misty spat the noxious liquid from her mouth, trying to place exactly what it was as the doused her again.

The fumes invaded Misty’s nostrils once more and she recognized the smell: it was gasoline. She writhed in earnest, trying to break free as the small collection of men stepped back. They were silent, which frightened Misty more than anything else up to that point. She struggled and kicked with everything she could muster, only stopping when she heard the strike of the match.

Her eyes widened as one man stepped forward from the collection of bystanders and came slowly closer. Silence hung heavy as he approached steadily, practiced. She resumed her seemingly pointless struggle, pulling her body tight against the twisted metal, anything to put more distance between herself and the match.

Suddenly, she heard her own voice pierce the night air, “It’s you that will end in flames, I swear it!” Her words echoed and disappeared into the night.

The match was thrown.

The flame exploded into a swirling vortex that ripped up her sides and climbed to envelop her completely. The pain was unlike anything she had experienced, like being slowly shredded from the outside in. It wrapped her up, devouring her clothing and lapping at her skin like a thousand angry needles. She tried with what little faculty she still retailed to push out of her body, like she used to with the venom. Unfortunately, the night would drag on far longer than she ever thought she could bear.


	6. Chapter 6

My Little Black Star

Chapter 6: A Reunion of Sorts

 

Cordelia pursed her lips and rose slowly from behind her desk. She wrapped tentative fingers around the end of her cane, palming the delicately curved wood and swinging it lightly from side to side. She was aware that Madison and Nan still sat, expectantly, or, at least in Madison’s case, begrudgingly, waiting for her to finish outlining the battle plan, but Cordelia just couldn’t. She lost focus, filled suddenly with a strange, familiar pull in her chest. It lifted her up and tugged her from the office, drawing her toward the foyer, toward whoever had been ringing their bell.

She heard the murmur of voices grow louder as she approached and the rhythm of her heart quickened slightly.

“Who’s there?” Cordelia drew closer to the voices and they fell silent. She could feel Zoe near to her, somewhere to her left, and there was something else. Something strong and almost-bright in her never-ending darkness; a faint glow in the black.

“A witch. Seeking Safety.”

“Somebody is lookin’ to kill me,” a warm low voice drawled. She knew that voice, but couldn’t seem to place it.

Cordelia extended her hand and after a few pregnant seconds, she felt a slight shock and then the weight of soft hands clasping hers. She scarcely had a moment to register the grit of dirt clinging to the lightly calloused fingers before gasping violently. The vision as it crashed over, coming in wave after furious wave. She felt searing pain and gripped the girl’s hands tightly as her mind flooded with pain and mud and the agony of a body stitching itself back together. She beheld a flash of blue eyes and curling blonde hair rising from black, dense mud and in the recesses of her mind a cry echoed, “It’s you who will end in flames! I swear it!”

Cordelia staggered slightly as the vision faded, she refused to let go of the girl’s hand. She knew that face, she knew this story and with one psychic shock, she was able to connect the pieces.

“You’re Misty Day,” she said, strong and sure.

Cordelia had read the tragic tale of the poor girl in the local paper. Misty Day, a young woman over in Lafayette, a handful, or so, years younger than herself was missing, presumed dead. The Cajun girl had, in the midst of a revival meeting, displayed the rare gift of resurgence, but she had done so surrounded by skittish bible-thumpers and they burned for it. The story had stood out to her, not simply because it created a neat cautionary tale to relate to the girls of the house, but because the name, Misty, reminded her of something that had happened to her when she was their age. She never could have imagined that the girl whose sad tale she had relayed and the girl with whom she had shared a captivating afternoon could be one and the same.

“You were set on fire and left for dead. Whatever troubles you had, they are ours now. You’re under the protection of this coven.” She paused, almost imperceptibly, “This is your house.”

Cordelia wished – not for the first time that morning – that she could see. She needed to see M, or Misty, rather, with her own eyes so she could be sure her visions weren’t just playing tricks. How many times had she wished to see that woman again? Hundreds? Thousands? She had gone to the library everyday for three months hoping to “run into” her. She spent nights unable to sleep, trying to recall the warmth of her laugh, resigning herself to the loss after a year had passed with no hope of contact. And now the fae Cajun was standing on her doorstep seeking sanctuary and Cordelia couldn’t even see her face.

“Could my friend stay, also?” the voice was silky and soothing, unmistakable. “I left her out back in the greenhouse.

Cordelia nodded and slowly swung around, finding the edges of the baseboards with the tip of her cane and gliding toward the rear of the house. She had only taken a handful of steps when she felt a hand at her elbow.

“It’s alright, I can manage it on my own.” Cordelia tried not to snap, but she had already tired of her own reliance on others and was in no hurry to accept assistance especially when it had not been requested.

“I know you can, Miss Cordelia,” she felt an arm slip through and link in her own as the sweet, southern voice lilted, barely above a whisper, “but I thought ya might be so good as to allow me to escort you. It’s the least I can do after those kind words.”

Cordelia could feel her cheeks warming and merely nodded her consent. The use of the honorary felt so silly and yet so blissfully familiar, it pulled the memory of their time together from the vault of her mind, and allowed it to flood her head with reminiscence. She had almost forgotten the sweet smell of earth and fragrant flowers that seemed to accompany the girl on her arm.

True, it had been only one afternoon, but their meeting had lingered, held in a place of reverence and fondness, until such time that it became painful to recall, and ultimately locked away.

Cordelia longed, desperately, to know what might be going through Misty’s mind. She wanted to run her fingers over the blonde woman’s face, feel the ridges and valleys of her features so that she might know how the Cajun felt about their sudden and unexpected reunion. She was given slight release when she felt a shallow breath at her neck followed by a simple admission.

“I missed you.”

With that, Misty withdrew her arm and Zoe took the lead as Cordelia pushed ahead, into the greenhouse.

“Hello?” she called, venturing tentatively into the greenhouse, finding the edge of her workbench with wandering fingers. “Don’t worry, you’re amongst friends.”

“Of course I am, Cordelia. So long as Fiona isn’t with you.”

Cordelia immediately recognized the affected, Mid-Atlantic accent; she could see the flame colored hair and cat-eye glasses, even without the use of her eyes.

“Myrtle?” She staggered toward the eccentric doyenne, grateful beyond words to hear her dramatic lilt. “Oh my god, I thought I’d never see you again!” Cordelia felt the soft embrace, delicate, diplomatic, as Myrtle enveloped her.

“Poor choice of words, girl.” Myrtle drew back and Cordelia became slightly self-conscious as she sensed the woman’s gaze trace over the scars framing her eyes, glazed and glassy. “But given my wretched appearance, maybe it's a good thing you're blind as a butter knife.”

They exchanged a few pleasantries and Nan commented on Myrtle’s hair, which confirmed the accuracy of Cordelia’s imagined appearance of her mentor. Cordelia rattled off the latest tragedies in a series of, what she felt were her, shortcomings and Myrtle rebutted her observations. Cordelia could hear some rustling and someone... humming? The sound of the watering can clanking softly. She knew, instinctively, that Misty must be watering her plants. Still trying to make things grow in spite of the chaos around them. _That’s a good sign_ , Cordelia thought to herself, almost missing the tail end of Myrtle’s discourse.

“Misty Day,” Cordelia felt a rush of air as Myrtle gestured away from her toward positioning her to face the sound of water and metal. The room suddenly fell deathly still. “Behold! Our next Supreme.”

* * *

The girls stood, rifling through the clothing, in a large room – twice the size of Misty’s shack – crowded with paintings of intimidating women. Some of the portraits glared, while some hung quietly, passively benevolent. There was a fire in the hearth, supplied by Madison in an inexplicable act of generosity, and it gave the room warm glow. It also, however, threw tall, dark shadows around the room that gave Misty pause and caused her to fidget.

The wild blonde witch slipped into the crimson robe, handed to her by an overly theatrical Myrtle. Misty took great joy in observing the woman she had revived flutter about and talk in outlandish highs and lows. People, she thought, are a lot like flowers: you plant them in the earth, care for them, encourage them to grow, then suddenly they flower with unexpected brilliance. She couldn’t think of a better analogy for the colorful woman now distributing clothing and touting her love of mothballs.

Misty smiled, in spite of herself. She fiddled with the tie of her cape, unsure of what exactly they were all doing, but relishing the rush of being asked to participate. She’d only been in the house a few hours – this time – and she’d already been settled in a room, between Cordelia’s and Zoe’s, which suited her, and was now helping with some sort of sacred ritual. While she was no stranger to the ominous nature accompanying the ceremony, it already felt safer than any she’d suffered through with her father. She was safely tucked among people who understood her, who saw what she did as a gift rather than a curse or some sort of divine mandate, and who seemed to think she had the makings of a leader. She wasn’t sure about that last bit, but for now, she’d go along and learn all she could.

While that was all more than she had ever hoped to deserve, the sweetest reward granted in the midst of this fraught situation, far and away, was Cordelia.

 _Miss Cordelia_ , she echoed in her head.

How was it that she had spent all that time in search of answers when they were waiting here all along? She had run, years ago, out of fear that someone like Cordelia would never understand her troubled past and her strange gift, when, in fact she may understand it better than Misty, herself. The thought that she might find the kinship she had so desperately desired, not only among the girls here, but with Cordelia, filled Misty with a giddy effervescence she was hiding poorly.

“I feel like a queen,” Misty lifted the black lace veil and swept it neatly back over her blonde waves. She still stood barefoot, her mud-caked feet peeking out below the ceremonial red cape. Otherwise, she looked just like every other member of the coven, which tickled her.

She watched as Zoe helped Cordelia into her robe, tying it gently at her neck. Then the girls fell to bickering over whom should rise as the next Supreme, something for which Myrtle seemed to think Misty was uniquely suited, based on reasons the wild girl couldn’t hope to understand. She was still reeling over the heady feeling of inclusion; she wasn’t jumping to lead this gaggle of girls, she didn’t even know how to _begin_ to lead. She had watched her father guide his flock, and living through the tragedy of its termination, she knew it was something she never wanted for herself. No, she was happy to hang back, wide-eyed, and observe, to steep in the intoxicating energy of those who neither revered or reviled her.

They continued to wheedle one another until Cordelia’s sharp voice cut in.

“Being the Supreme isn't something to wish for. It's not a gift. It's a burden. How many of these women had happy lives?” Misty gazed around the room, understanding that these glaring portraits held the images of previous coven leaders. Cordelia continued, “They had the power, but with it came the crushing responsibility of the coven. They all bowed under the weight, except my mother, who ran from it.”

Cordelia’s tone was cold and harsh, if forced a shiver up Misty’s spine. “Can I say something?” she wanted to set the record straight, and maybe soften Cordelia, who, after her reunion with Myrtle had turned terse and adopted a standoffish attitude that gave Misty pause. “I don’t want to be the Supreme.”

Cordelia turned her head toward Misty, and while Misty was sure the woman could not actually see her, she shrank under the vacant gaze.

“Nobody gets to choose. When Fiona dies, whoever it is will be. Now, give me your hands.”

Misty took Zoe’s hand and felt Myrtle’s gloved fingers lace in her other one as the ritual began. She tried to concentrate on the history of it all; she turned to receive breath and cut her finger at the appropriate moment and before they had begun, it was over. Now there was nothing to do but wait.

* * *

Cordelia sat across from Myrtle on the settee, listening to the faint rustling as the older woman dressed for the evening’s activities of deception. It wasn’t everyday they had the chance to coax one so reviled to cast off the mortal coil, Myrtle had announced, theatrically before throwing open the doors to her wardrobe. Cordelia had the sneaking suspicion that Myrtle might use any occasion as an excuse to don some new costume piece. Seeing as the woman had recently been brought back from the grave, Cordelia had little desire to begrudge her any happiness, however frivolous.

“Auntie Myrtle,” The headmistress shifted slightly, legs crossed at the knee, hands resting on the curve of her cane.

“What is it little bird.”

Cordelia heard the slight tinkling of metal and assumed Myrtle was selecting jewelry.

“What do you know about Misty Day? I mean,” the young woman paused to consider her words, “other than her obvious power, what do you _really_ know about her.”

“Oh Delia, dear, you needn’t worry.” Myrtle’s voice grew in volume as she approached and her sudden weight on the settee caused Cordelia to reposition slightly.

Gloved hands enclosed Cordelia’s own and she was, in this moment, thankful for the older woman’s habit of covering her hands, as even the slightest touch could trigger an unpleasant vision to be suffered.

“The girl has a good heart. I dare say she may be the most selfless person I’ve ever encountered.” Myrtle sighed and sank into her own weight. “She found me, alone, charred to a crisp – said she was called to me, to my suffering – and took me in, no questions, no hesitation. She planted me in her garden, _quite literally_!”

Cordelia was lost in thought, but managed a weak smile at the thought of Myrtle, clean, crisp, obsessively neat Myrtle, settled deep into the dirt.

“I don’t remember a great deal, but I do remember her speaking to me, through the mud and muck, as my body knit itself back together. She sang to me and read to me, Delia. She spoke kind words.” Cordelia felt an arm wrap, protectively, around her shoulder. “And I guarantee, while she may seem simple and charming, there is fire there, and, most definitely, a mind at work. She will make a fine leader of this Coven, fair and kind. She is everything Fiona is not.”

Cordelia bowed her head as tears stung her vacant eyes. She felt so strangely conflicted over this new twist in the plot that was playing out for all of them. She had harbored such apprehension and, perhaps, joy at the idea of finding Misty, but now the girl was here, presented as the potential new Supreme, and the only emotions that seemed to rise in the glassy-eyed headmistress were anger, sadness, and overwhelming confusion.

She didn’t want the burden of supremacy to fall on this young woman, who clearly felt the same way. Aside from the staggering weight of responsibility for the coven, Misty’s probability of being the new Supreme put her squarely in the center of Fiona’s crosshairs. She wanted safety, kindness, comfort, and maybe time, for their newest charge. Not crushing responsibility and the vague but looming threat of death. Even if they could manage to keep her safe from Fiona, there was no guarantee Misty would survive the test of Seven Wonders.

She felt the saline sting the sensitive skin around her eyes and brushed away the tears as they came.

“My dear,” she felt the soft satin of Myrtle’s glove on her cheek, “Whatever is the matter?

“I’m just so worried. I can’t lose another girl, not to Marie, not to my mother. Oh, Auntie Myrtle, I don’t expect you to understand, I don’t even understand myself, but I can’t,” she choked down a sob that threatened to erupt. “I can’t lose _this girl_.”

“She is rather unique. But she is under our care, and you made promises to her that I, for one, intend to keep.” Myrtle wiped a stray tear before it fell from Cordelia’s cheek and rose from the settee. “You’re always so hard on yourself, Delia. And just think, if tonight’s events go according to plan, my love, you won’t have to worry about Fiona any longer. She will be little more than dust and Misty will be free to rise.” There was more rustling and the faint clink of metal as Myrtle continued her preparations.

Cordelia knew she was being childish, but she just wanted all of this to fall away. She wanted to sit in a quiet café and find out where their new addition to the academy had been hiding these last few years. She wanted to know more than that, she wanted to know everything, but she’d settle for a quiet conversation. But even that was too much to ask with the threat of Fiona’s avarice still lingering, not to mention the threat that forced the witch from her swamp in the first place.

 If, as Myrtle said, their night went to plan, Fiona would be permanently deposed. She steeled herself against failure and re-dedicated herself to the cause at hand. Perhaps, when this evenings tactics were behind them, she might get her quiet conversation after all.


	7. Night Visions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Realizations and revelations in the night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is super long. Thanks for sticking with me!

Misty woke in a dark, unfamiliar room with a start. She panicked for a brief moment before realizing she was in her new room at the academy. She must have passed out after reviving that woman next door. She didn’t know how she ended up back in bed, but supposed it didn’t matter much now. 

Moonlight striped the floor, creeping in through the slats in the shutters and she pushed herself up to sit upright. The wild blonde attempted to slow the beating of her heart, employing a breathing meditation technique she’d picked up during her travels. She breathed deeply through her nose, filling her diaphragm, pulling the breath in to fill her lungs from bottom to top, held the breath for a few seconds, then pushed the air out through her mouth in a great whoosh. She settled a bit and began to replay and process the events of the last few hours. 

After the ceremony, Misty, the girls, Myrtle, and Cordelia all gathered in the Room full of portraits. –“The Ancestor Room,” Zoe had told her. Everyone was fidgety and short with one another and Myrtle insisted on playing some melancholic dirge that did little to quell the storm brewing in her belly. Misty had moved from the stairs and had tucked her feet, still bare and caked in mud, beneath her, careful not to stain the upholstery, when she inexplicably found herself standing amidst broken glass and police officers, hovering over the body of a middle-aged woman in a blood-stained bathrobe.

Misty had been pulled to the dead and dying before, she understood what had happened, but that didn’t mean it wasn’t a shock each time it happened. 

After she’d clawed her way out from under the Louisiana swamp muck, having woken up there a month after being burned, healed and hungry as a grizzly in spring, she’d finally accepted her power. And while she would never admit to the vengeful spirit that had curled around her heart, she did promise to never again stifle her gift. She’d finally acknowledged it as the boon it truly was and was determined to use it for the good of any creature, great or small, whose death was unfairly wrought by the cruel hand of man. Shortly after that she started being called to misfortune and injustice.

The first time she’d been pulled to a tragedy, she felt ill and disoriented. The sickness was brought on by the suffering of animals, wrongly slain, rather than the sudden pull of her body through space. Gators hung by their tails from gnarled oaks, choked, shot, sliced. Her stomach turned and she wandered from one to the next voicing her disapproval. She had never had problems with gators in all her years on the bayou, they mostly kept to themselves and Misty did the same. But seeing them strung up stirred up vengeance like the prodding of hot coals, coaxing them into a roaring fire. She went from beast to beast, drawing each back from the black precipice of death; they made quick work of the redneck poachers who’d so carelessly harmed them. Misty heard the woeful screams of one of the men before they were swallowed by the black swamp depths and she fell into darkness.

She had almost gotten used to the call when she was ripped away from an evening meditation only to wake up in the back seat of a car. Misty realized quickly that there was no death there, but that the situation could still benefit from her skill, her gift. The driver of the car, Zoe, had brought a boy back from the dead, but something went wrong and he was now in need of care. They found their way back to her shack on the bayou and Misty set about tending to the boy’s wounds, the consequence of a hasty needle and thread tying his limbs to his body. 

Zoe was grateful and Misty had hoped she might stay. Like a sign from the Almighty, this girl came into her life and accepted her without fear. What’s more, she put a name to Misty’s unique talents.

“The gift of resurgence.” Misty recalled smiling at this, while she slathered the crudely cobbled-together corpse now living and breathing before her. “I like the sound of that.”

But she left.

Zoe did come back though, which shocked Misty more than anything else and Misty found herself following Zoe from the bayou and into the city. They made their way to an old plantation house and Misty found herself in the academy for the first time, Madame Robichaux’s Academy for Exceptional Young Women. She recognized the name right away, but decided to keep quiet about Cordelia as she had learned, the hard way, the dangers of too much honesty. Zoe, for her part, seemed to have a vested interested in keeping Misty’s participation a secret, and Misty had no objections. True, Zoe had offered to let her stay, but the academy felt cold, angry, full of hateful energy that pressed against her chest and Misty had no desire to exist in such a hostile environment. 

Now, however, even with the vague but persistent threat of Cordelia’s mother, Misty could sense that whatever malevolence had lingered in the house during her last visit was gone now. She had revived the neighbor next door, without uttering a word to Fiona, and woke in what was to be her room from now on.

She felt strangely warm, open. She slid from the bed and padded lightly across the room. The walls were high and stark white, shadows climbed and swayed in the pale moonlight and Misty was able to find her way across the room to the bag she’d managed to throw together while fleeing the swamp. She pulled out the tin box of keepsakes and put it on a nearby dresser next to a large fluffy set of folded towels, white as the rest of the room. It abruptly occurred to her that if she had any hopes of existing in this sterile house, she should probably wash off the mud she’d been coated in since the previous evening.

Misty looked around the room for a clock and found that it was just past midnight. She wanted desperately to be courteous to the others in the house, but her dire need for cleanliness outweighed her fear of disturbing her new housemates and she resolved to take advantage of the hot, running water.

The lanky blonde slid the bangles down and off her wrists, allowing them to clatter and collect in a small pile on the black lacquered dresser. Her rings followed shortly and she curled and flexed her fingers, stiffly. Misty swept her hair to the side and pulled the long beaded necklaces off, unclasping the few chokers hovering above her collarbone. Though she loved the feeling and weight of all the jewelry – it suited her and acted almost as armor – Misty couldn’t help but revel in the lightness that accompanied their removal.

She gathered up the fluffy white towel and small washcloth and crossed to the door, pulling it open with unnecessary force. Misty almost jumped out of her skin, gasping audibly, as she found herself face to face with the academy’s headmistress. She unceremoniously clapped her hand over her mouth, exhaling through her fingers.

“Gracious light, Miss Cordelia!” she hissed out in an exaggerated whisper. “I almost swallowed my heart, it jumped so high!”

Cordelia smiled, Misty noted the woman had her hand over her heart; she must’ve had a bit of a shock as well.

“I was just coming to check on you, it’s been such a long, taxing day for all of us,” she demurred, “I’m sorry if I startled you.”

“S’alright. I was just gonna head over and take a shower, I’ve still got half the swamp on me.” Misty hugged the towels tightly to her chest, her breathing had slowed, but her heart still rattled noisily in her chest. “I didn’t want to wake anyone, though.”

The shorter woman shifted and brought her hands to rest at the top of her cane. “I doubt any of the girls are sleeping, not after the day we’ve had.” Cordelia extended her hand and found Misty’s arm. Her glassy eyes were hollow, but strangely comforting. “But if you’d like the privacy, or even just the quiet, you’re more than welcome to use mine.”

“I wouldn’t want to put you out, I’m sure you have other things to –”

“Nonsense.”

Cordelia turned over her left shoulder, not waiting for further protest and the Cajun witch followed tentatively. To be truthful, Misty was relieved at the offer of kindness coming from the older woman who had, earlier in the evening, seemed strangely distant. 

She had watched Cordelia, poised, tight-lipped, as she orchestrated the plot to kill a woman Misty hadn’t even met. To kill Miss Cordelia’s mother. Misty knew something about cruelty and betrayal, but even so, something about the whole process just strung her nerves tighter than catgut on a fiddle. And then there was Cordelia, who had been short with the girls and so distant. Nothing like the woman who had so dreamily followed her into the antique shop years ago. Had so much changed in so little time? Misty didn’t expect ease, especially from someone attempting to execute the forced suicide of her own mother, but Misty was still so desperate for human contact and wanted so much to draw some warmth from their reunion, however small.

Thankfully, the woman leading the way down the hall seemed to bear a stronger resemblance to the Cordelia of Misty’s memories. It was a short walk and Misty slipped into the room, sliding past Cordelia. The room was large, stark and open, orderly and vaguely intimidating, even in the faint light. Misty realized that Cordelia wouldn’t need lights on and so refrained from following instinct and flicking the switch to flood the room with brightness. She, herself, had become accustomed to dark nights on the bayou, when the generator stopped rattling and the candles all burned down, she would lay in the dark and breathe deeply until she drifted to sleep.

“I promise not to take too long,” Misty crossed to the threshold of the washroom.

“Take as long as you need.” Cordelia shrugged and smiled, her empty gaze floating toward Misty. The taller blonde shivered a bit. She knew the woman was blind, but her eyes still seemed to find Misty’s and hold them with unwavering intensity. It was unnerving, but not all together unpleasant. 

The Cajun witch ducked her head in assent then, realized she needed to voice her response. “Thank you. So much.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

There were no words for how amazing it had been to take a hot shower. It had been ages since Misty had been able to feel that truly, deeply clean. If it hadn’t been for her sense of propriety, she would have stood under that scalding spray for hours, long after the dingy grey-green swamp tainted water had spun down the drain, taking with it the tension from her back and shoulders. She let out a deep sigh and allowed her muscles go slack before stepping from the shower. She wrapped herself up in the big, fluffy towel and realized, suddenly, that she had neglected to bring something to change into. She wrung the water from her hair and let it hang loose and damp, wild, around her shoulders before tucking the towel into a makeshift dress. 

She hesitated for the briefest of moments before pulling the door open and stepping into the darkened bedroom. She glanced around the room and found Cordelia running her fingers over the petals of a full chrysanthemum, tucked into a small arrangement on the dresser at the far wall. She had changed from her severe black dress into a soft grey night shift and Misty made her way over, sheepishly. She was overly conscious of the creaking of the floorboards as she crossed and could almost make out a smile forming as she drew closer to the other woman.

“I hope you had a nice shower.”

“Nice? It was divine. I haven’t had a shower like that in ages.” Misty’s felt her pulse quicken. “I mean, please don’t misunderstand, Miss Cordelia. I wash everyday,” she couldn’t seem to stop herself from talking, “but it’s in a big metal tub, and the water is almost never even warm. I don’t recall the last time I had a proper hot shower. It was absolute heaven.”

“Well, I’m glad we could oblige, then, Misty.”

The Cajun paused for a moment, acutely aware that she was standing in a strange room with nothing but a towel between her and the rest of the world. “Even with everything that happened in the last handful of hours, the fear and the strangeness, I have to say this is one of the best days I’ve had in a long while. I’m – ” she faltered and lost her train of thought as those vacant eyes rose to meet hers once more. “How do you do that?”

Cordelia shook her head a bit, “Do what?”

“I – I don’t mean to sound rude, or ignorant, Miss Cordelia, but you have to know how many times you catch me straight in the eye. It’s like you can see right into me.”

Cordelia almost laughed as she pulled open a drawer and ran her fingers over the fabric within. She pulled out a soft cotton shirt, white, and pair of boxer shorts, blue plaid. 

“I suppose I can sort of see you.” She shifted and held out the clothing to Misty who almost shrank back from the offering. “I don’t know if these match, but you’re welcome to sleep in them until we can go back and get some of your things.”

The swamp witch took the clothes and made quick work of shimmying into them. They were loose, and the fact that they clearly belonged to a man was not lost on her. 

“What do you mean you can see me?” She gathered the damp towel and crossed to drape it over the arm of the nearby settee.

“Some people, not all, give of a faint light, an aura.” Cordelia made her way, slowly back toward the bed. The taller blonde noted she was without her cane, perhaps familiar enough with the room to not necessitate its use. She sat at the head of the bed, drawing her legs up gracefully, like a doe settling in soft grass. Misty crossed and settled on the bed, an arm’s length away, folding her own legs up like a Swiss army knife.

“You give off this soft, golden glow.” Cordelia smiled and adopted a vaguely smug look, “and you always have.” Misty cocked her head, confused. “I noticed it the first time we met.”

“The library,” Misty murmured.

“Even before that, I think.”

“Before?” Misty quirked up.

“Do you trust me?” Cordelia extended both hands and Misty hesitated.

“I-I don’t know. I tend to trust a lot of folk I shouldn’t.”

“I only want to show you, Misty. You’re meant to be here with us.” Cordelia paused, “With me.”

Misty swallowed, dryly and steeled herself for whatever might happen before firmly taking the older woman’s hands into her own.

She plunged, abruptly, into the bleak black consciousness of a forgotten memory. She was watching a younger version of herself weave through tall trees, but something was strange: she wasn’t in control. Misty was watching herself from somewhere outside her body, observing it rather than living it. She blinked and found herself transported away, saw the small form of her younger self, running, falling. She knew what had happened, she remembered the pain of that first death, but she felt no sting, no fire. She could look with her eyes, but her body acted independently, it moved without her willing it, piloted by some outside force. She realized that she must be in a memory belonging to someone else, in a body that was not her own. 

The pretty blonde girl in the swamp.

She felt strong arms pick up the small body, her small body, which grew heavier by the minute. Misty looked down at her own, young face and saw a faint, golden glow, growing dimmer each passing second. She could feel the strain on the arms carrying her body from the swamp, she could feel frustration penetrating her consciousness. She closed her eyes and felt a great push from within, opening them only to find herself looking at the house she’d grown up in. 

She’d been trying to chase Cordelia that day! The day she died her first death, Cordelia had been there! She’d been the “angel” who brought Misty back to her father. 

The realization was enough to force Misty from the memory; she violently snatched her hands from Cordelia’s. Tears stung her eyes, and confusion flooded her senses. She didn’t know why she was crying, but she couldn’t seem to stop. Or breathe. She slammed her eyes shut and tried, unsuccessfully, to regulate her breathing, desperately drawing oxygen into her lungs to satisfy her stuttering heart. She felt a soft hand press between her shoulder blades and rub slow circles there. 

“It’s alright. You’re here and you’re safe.” Cordelia spoke soft, calm. She had shifted on the bed and now sat next to Misty, “Breathe in deep and let it out.”

“It was you!” Misty gasped between breaths. “You were there the first time!”

“The first time?” 

Misty took Cordelia’s hand, recklessly disregarding the chance it might trigger another vision and pressed it to her chest. “The first time I died.”

“I didn’t realize...” Cordelia started, “I’m so sorry.”

Misty relaxed into the feeling of warmth radiating through her chest and slowed her breathing.

“It’s alright.” She placed both hands over Cordelia’s, continuing to press it to her chest. “You didn’t know. I haven’t thought about that day in a long time, I must’a pushed it to the back a’my mind since my daddy died. It just took me by surprise.” Misty blinked tears from her eyes and sighed into Cordelia who wrapped her free arm around the Cajun girl’s shoulders.

“I’m sorry to have put you through that again.” Cordelia hummed near Misty’s collarbone. “I’m still working the kinks out of this gift, I didn’t mean for it to be so... abrasive?” she offered. 

“I’m alright. Really, I am.” 

“Could I –,” Cordelia started, but abandoned the sentence. 

“What?”

“I thought I might try to show you something else, something better.” Cordelia shifted a bit, pressing herself a bit closer. Misty wasn’t sure if it was intended or accidental, but she had no desire to move away from the woman. “It’s okay to say no, I don’t want to push you.”

“Okay.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes. I’m sure.” Misty rolled her shoulders down and back and exhaled softly.

“Close your eyes.” Cordelia’s voice was soft and low. “And try to focus on how you feel.”

The transition was much easier the second time. Misty found herself in another place she recognized: Mrs. Rothschild’s antique store. She saw herself again, a few years younger than she was now, bright, animated. She watched herself sidle up to a box of 8-track tapes and talk animatedly while picking through them. She felt something well up from within. It was familiar, earnest and soothing. It pulled slightly at her chest. She glanced down at a moss green shawl, feeling it slip through her fingers. She felt an intense longing wash over her, but not for the shawl, for something else she couldn’t name. She brought her eyes back to the version of herself delightedly digging through the box of tapes and felt the rush again. This time, something caught her eye, a faint golden tinge at the edges of her vision. Her heart fluttered and she sank slowly out of the memory and back into the moonlit bedroom. 

“I went back to that library everyday for three months hoping to see you there.” Cordelia murmured, her head resting near Misty’s shoulder. “I don’t know why, but I felt so strongly that I needed to know you. Did you feel it?”

“I did,” she trailed off for a moment. “I wanted to know you too, I just didn’t know how. I left that night. Packed my bags and didn’t look back. I was too scared to let someone get close. I didn’t know what I was.” Misty replied. “Everyone around me kept leaving, kept dying. I kept dying. How could I even start to explain that?”

“You’re an incredibly powerful witch with an extraordinary gift.”

“Oh sure, it sounds great when you say it,” Mistly giggled lightly and nudged the woman next to her.

“I meant what I said this morning.” Cordelia reached up and traced Misty’s face, absently pushing damp curls back from her face. “This is your house now, your troubles are ours. We understand what it’s like to have power, to have strange gifts, and we will support you.”

Misty was still for a moment, moved beyond words.

“Could I – ” she hesitated. “Could I stay here tonight? I don’t know if I could sleep on my own. Not after all this.”

“Of course.”

Cordelia slowly drew her arms from around the Cajun witch and rose to her feet. She felt her way to the head of the bed and moved pillows aside before drawing back the covers. Misty slid in, reclining on her back with a hand draped over her stomach. The air was cool, but she didn’t pull the covers up. Cordelia settled in on her right, shifting to her side, back to Misty. They lay like that for a few moments. Neither talking, soaking in the comfortable silence until, one after the other, their breathing became steady, even, and sleep came to perch there.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Listening to: “Metals” by Feist, “Young Man in America” by Anaïs Mitchell


	8. In Your Eyes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay, more of this and maybe some other stand-alones coming soon!
> 
> Listening to: “I was an Eagle” by Lara Marling and “Undress” by Jesca Hoop

 

 

My Little Black Star

Chapter 8: In Your Eyes

 

Cordelia was conflicted, defeated, sobbing, elated. She had so many emotions shoving, jostling against each other in her mind, each vying for a few minutes of focus. For the moment, she just stared at her hands. Even the simple act of tracing the lines that creased her palms filled her so full of gratitude that she nearly choked on the wet, sorrowful laughter lodged in her throat.

She had gained her sight, but she had lost her vision.

She was back where she started, feeling wave after wave of joy and despair. She was useless, helpless, unable to foresee the future, unable to divine the past through simple contact.

But she could see.

She remembered the flooding of light, it stung, burning into the too-wide aperture of eyes that felt strange as she blinked around them. The room blurred, her vision was suddenly flooded with red and Cordelia winced before taking in more. The fire in her eyes had been nothing more than the burnt orange flame of Myrtle’s hair as she hummed and bustled about the room, clucking with pride. It took Cordelia a moment to actually realize the miracle that was her ability to take in Myrtle’s fastidious flitting and she was suddenly awash in stunned joy and confusion. Neither would last, however. Between her mother’s criticism and a brusque encounter with Madison Montgomery, Cordelia found herself wrestling again with her most persistent personal demons: ineptitude and helplessness.

There was a fair amount of guilt sprinkled in, as she couldn’t help how thankful she was to take in the sunlight, the leer of their matriarchs, scowling from their frames in the ancestor room, the green of her garden, which seemed to be flourishing, more alive and vibrant than she had ever seen it. These were the stones that tipped her scales, the joy that tempered her loss, she felt uneasy reveling in her happiness. Her visions had more value to the coven, what use could she be now 

Cordelia had snuck away to the greenhouse, anxious to escape her mother’s hawkish sneers and Myrtle’s preening. She needed a quiet place to sort out her feelings, turning them over and over in her mind until the clank of the old metal watering can alerted her to the presence of another in the humid room. She snapped out of her reverie and beheld the one person who might provide some solace and comfort.

“Sorry, I didn’t see you in here Miss Cordelia, otherwise I woulda, I don’t know, announced myself or something.”

Cordelia’s confused swirl of emotions reconciled themselves the moment she took in the lopsided grin pulling at the corner of Misty’s mouth. She stood, haltingly, taking in the vision before her.

Misty was taller than Cordelia remembered, with strong, lithe limbs, draped in a simple shift dress, accentuated with a scarf tied loosely around her waist and her usual bangles stacked up her wrists. Misty’s blonde hair wound wildly around her face in a mess of blonde tendrils, black feathers occasionally pushing through the curls. Her black kohl-lined eyes were still alarmingly blue, thrown wide as the Cajun witch suddenly realized that Cordelia could see her.

“You – Your eyes!” Misty breathed, dropping the watering can and crossing closer to where Cordelia sat, perched on a high stool.

Cordelia slid from her seat near the Nightshade cuttings and rose to level her eyes with Misty’s. She wanted to drink in the look of her, loose, beautiful, warm. She looked like she could have twisted up from the earth, bare feet rooted firmly in the dirt.

Misty stepped intoxicatingly close; she smelled of sandalwood and freshly turned earth. The taller woman brought a hand up to Cordelia’s temple, her thumb brushing the now-healed scars just above her cheekbones. Cordelia broke their gaze, suddenly self-conscious of her new miss-matched eyes, her scarring, Misty’s proximity. It was all so much. She had taken in the scars around her eyes for the first time earlier that day and though they had healed considerably, still felt a twinge of insecurity under Misty’s intense gaze. She remembered one of their earlier sessions in the greenhouse when Misty had gently broached the subject of her blindness.

It had only been a handful of nights since Misty had first slept in Cordelia’s room, a precedent that once set, had continued ever since. Sometimes Cordelia would be nodding off when she’d hear a faint knock at her door, she’d let Misty in and they would fall asleep inches apart.

That night, Cordelia had risen, alone and unable to sleep, wrapped a blanket around her shoulders, and started the search for Misty. She wondered briefly if it was the absence of another body in her bed that kept her awake, but quickly shook off the notion. She had spent years with Hank intermittently sharing her bed without incident, as he was so often away on construction bids. She scoffed at the idea, knowing now that his “construction bids” consisted of courting other women rather than companies and contractors. She had already resigned herself to sleeping alone when she found her bed suddenly occupied regularly once more.   It was innocent, silent and still most nights, but it was comforting none the less. And so she found herself wandering the halls, seeking out her erstwhile companion.

Cordelia pushed open the door of the greenhouse, knowing it to be the one place Misty could be found without fail. The faint sound of Stevie Nicks wound its way to Cordelia’s ears as she found the edge of the work table and pulled her way steadily into the room. 

“Misty?” She called faintly, trying to determine where the younger woman was working.

“I’m here, Miss Cordelia,” a soft voice called from over her right shoulder, “in the zinnias.”

Cordelia smiled, “Zinnias, for constancy, and thinking of an absent friend.”

“I don’t need ‘em now,” Misty’s voice grew louder, closer, sweeter, “’cause, you’re here now.”

Cordelia blushed a deep shade of crimson and felt the girl sweep past her. She was often blindsided by Misty’s unabashed sincerity. Misty was guarded around the other girls, speaking little of her life, her history, but with Cordelia, she was open to the point of being effusive. It was not something Cordelia had much experience with and she often found it almost abrasive, though certainly not unpleasant. Cordelia was occasionally caught off guard by a completely honest confession and even more so when asked a direct question without having to wade through the mire of hidden meaning and motive. It was completely foreign to her not to shield herself against both compliment and query. It took some adjustment, but Misty gave her ample opportunity.

“I was thinking,” Misty was now close to Cordelia’s left shoulder, close enough for Cordelia to see her faint glow, to feel the static in the air, “maybe we could go back to my swamp in a day or so.”

They had returned a few days prior and Misty had gathered some clothing and a few odds and ends into a few cracked leather trunks that now sat, open, spilling their contents into her room at the academy. It didn’t particularly matter, the state of her room, as she was hardly ever in it; she was always either lingering near the headmistress or tending the plants in the greenhouse. From time to time she might take a walk with Myrtle, but for the most part she kept close to the academy, close to Cordelia.

“Of course. I know you must miss it.” Cordelia picked over a few leaves on the work table, feeling their edges, trying to identify them by touch. She rubbed a leaf between her fingers and brought it close to her nose. Peppermint. 

“It’s not that. Well, it is, of course, but not _just_ that.” Cordelia could hear Misty, her shuffling punctuated by the sound of a spray bottle trigger-pull, “I was thinking I could take a few jars and bring back some of my swamp mud. It’d do wonders for some of these plants. And maybe–” Misty faltered and Cordelia felt the crack of electricity in the air as the girl drew closer, “I don’t wanna offend, Miss Cordelia, but I thought I might see if it might be able to help with your eyes. I don’t know if it’ll help the blindness, but it should heal your scars.”

Cordelia brought her fingers subconsciously to her temple and felt the raised skin around her eyes. She wondered if it looked as harsh and ravaged as it felt under her fingertips. She shied away from Misty, suddenly feeling the girl’s hot gaze on her.

“Oh no–” Misty backtracked. Cordelia felt a lithe, rough hand cover her own.

This was another adjustment for Cordelia, the younger witch seemed to subsist, at least partially, on physical contact. Cordelia had been reared by two rather standoffish women and even Hank had been… distant? Respectful? But now she found herself being constantly led by the elbow, her hair was occasionally brushed from her face, her hands grasped. Misty had initially asked before each touch, ensuring Cordelia wasn’t put off or that her contact wasn’t unwelcome and for that Cordelia was grateful. It wasn’t as though the sensation of physical touch was completely foreign, she just never had any expectation of it. Plus, it was initially jarring as her lack of sight prevented her from anticipating the contact. Now though, Cordelia expected each interchange to be peppered with light touches, soft caresses, even hugs when warranted and she relished each one.

“Miss Cordelia, I didn’t mean...” Misty seemed to grapple for the right words. “You’re beautiful.” Cordelia dropped her hands and she felt rough, dusty hands brush loose hair away from her temple. “Nothing could change that, I just thought you might…”

“It’s alright. Thank you.” Cordelia interrupted laughing, lightly. “One of the benefits of my inability to see is that I don’t have to look at myself every day.” She smiled around her words, though they were tinged with a bitter sadness. “I don’t know what it looks like, but it feels angry.” She could feel the sting of tears and choked back a sob that threatened to climb up her throat. “Angry and raw.”

“It looks like the mask of a very brave woman.” Misty answered.

Cordelia laughed at this and felt a tear squeeze from her left eye and trail down her cheek. “I suppose that’s fitting.”

“Fitting?”

“Most superheroes who wear masks have some sort of accident at the root of their powers: chemical spill, spider bite, exposure to radiation, act of god.” Cordelia was smiling in earnest now. “I suppose all I needed was a bit of acid to the face and now I can see the future.”

“Acid...” Misty turned the word over in her mouth.

“Oh,” Cordelia wondered if her joking was in bad color. “I don’t mean to be so cavalier, it’s just... I suppose I’m tired of feeling sorry for myself.”

“I can understand that, I just didn’t know how it happened.”

“You never asked.” Cordelia countered.

“I was taught it’s not polite to go askin’ after things like that. You wait for people to bring it up if they want, otherwise you just leave it be.”

“In the short time you’ve been here, I’ve never known you to just let _anything_ be.” Cordelia felt a lightly callused hand brush a tear from her cheek.

Misty laughed, deep and throaty, but somehow light. “Even I have my limits I s’pose.”

“I like you without limits.” Cordelia remarked and immediately felt the blood rush to her cheeks, realizing the potential deeper meaning to her words. “What I mean is, I have lived my life with nothing but limits. It’s nice to meet someone who seems to be able to live beyond them. 

“Oh, Miss Cordelia,” she could hear the smile in Misty’s voice, “I have boundaries and barriers, just like anybody. But they’re for other folks, not for you.”

Cordelia sighed, sweetly.

“I don’t know what I’ve done to earn the gift of your trust, but I promise you, I won’t abuse it.” Cordelia said, wishing she could see Misty’s eyes, if only for a moment. She remembered them as a sort of fathomless blue and often held them in her mind’s eye.

“I know you won’t, that’s why I gave it to ya.” Misty said, her words, her sentiment, so simple.

They spent another hour or so together, talking, laughing, listening to Stevie, before making their way up to Cordelia’s room, falling asleep, chastely, with Misty’s hand tucked delicately under Cordelia’s cheek.

Now, Cordelia was falling into Misty’s eyes, just as blue and deep as she remembered, watching them glaze slightly with the threat of tears.

“How?” Misty asked.

“Myrtle. She –,” Cordelia tripped over her words, “fixed me?”

She dropped Misty’s gaze, opting instead to focus on the floor, marveling at her regained ability to trace the cracks in the aged wood and dirt.

“Well, I wouldn’t say that.” Cordelia didn’t have to look at the girl’s face to see the smile there, she could hear it in Misty’s voice. “You were never broken.”

Cordelia raised her eyes once more and found herself grinning, stupidly.

 

* * *

 

“Ugh, what is up with _Madame_ Cordelia today?” Madison Montgomery threw open the refrigerator door and picked through the contents of the fridge. “Handsy bitch.”

“Why are you looking in there? You know you’re not going to eat anything anyway.” Nan snarked.

“Worried I might steal your kibble?” Madison slammed the door and crossed to the table, throwing herself into a chair at its head.

“Jesus Madision, Cordelia literally _just_ got her sight back, have a little compassion.” Zoe piped up, ever the voice of reason, or at least tolerance.

“Boring.” Madison rolled her eyes and pulled out a compact, inspecting the red line across her throat, blotting it with concealer. “She practically felt me up on my way down here. Blind or not, she’s seriously coming unhinged.”

“I wouldn’t worry. She’d definitely not interested in you,” Nan said matter-of-factly. “That’s for sure.”

“Duh, she’s only had eyes for that backwoods bitch ever since she got here.”

“Cordelia is trying to make her feel at home.” Zoe tried to deflect some of the harshness from Misty. She knew the girl was strangely sensitive. “And you know she’s got the best shot at being the Supreme.”

“Like you care.”

“I do!” Zoe snapped and immediately settled, she didn’t want to give Madison the satisfaction of getting a rise out of her. “I mean, anything to get Fiona out of here.”

 “Right. You’re just squicked because you thought you were going to be the next Supreme.”

 “So did you.” Zoe countered.

“Yeah, well fuck that. If it means late night study sessions with the blind wonder,” Madison corrected herself, “or formerly blind wonder, count me out.”

“Late night sessions?” Zoe asked. And Nan almost giggled.

“You mean you haven’t noticed that Misty’s been here almost a week and she’s never slept in her own bed? Are _you_ blind?” Madison snapped her compact shut and started fishing around in her purse for a cigarette.

“I’ve been...” Zoe struggled for an excuse, “pre-occupied. Besides, it’s none of our business anyway.”

“Pre-occupied,” Madison echoed, “I’ll say.”

“I wish they’d just get on with it already.” Nan sighed.

“What do you mean?” Zoe raised an eyebrow and Madison used her new-found pyrokinetic skill to light the end of her cigarette.

“She means they should just bone down and get it over with. 

“Madison!” Zoe knit her brow.

“She’s not wrong.” Nan shrugged. “They’re totally into each other. Have been for years.”

“Years?” Zoe wasn’t one for idle gossip and speculation, but the idea that their newest addition and Cordelia had a relationship that extended back _years_ was interesting, at the very least. “Misty never mentioned knowing Cordelia, not even when she came here to bring Madison back.”

“It’s not like either of them are particularly forthcoming.” Madison took a long draw on her cigarette and blew a large puff of smoke toward Nan. “Don’t they know secrets don’t make friends?”

“They met in a library, and once before that in the swamp where Misty grew up. They have history.” Nan leaned her cheek on her palm and stared off dreamily toward some distant point. “Cordelia recognized her. Even when she was blind, she could see Misty’s aura in the darkness.” 

“Wow.” Zoe said wistfully.

Madison remained unaffected. “Well, they should get on with it. If Misty is the next Supreme, then she’s got a target on her back and they better get busy before she gets dead.”

“You would know.” Nan scoffed.

“I _would_ know.” Madison countered. “Either you’re not the Supreme or you’re in danger of getting real dead, real fast. So they need to stop fucking around and start,” she paused, “ _fucking_ around!”

“Gross.” Nan rolled her eyes.

“Yeah, thanks Madison.”

“Anytime.” Madison blew another long stream of smoke up through the rafters in the high-ceilinged kitchen


	9. A Fire Inside

  
My Little Black Star

Chapter 9: A Fire Inside

Misty sighed and pressed her back into the wall just outside Cordelia’s room. She watched the shadows grow and shrink in the moonlight, spilling in from the tall window at the end of the hall. She could hear the faint rustle of movement as the rest of the house shifted, settling deeper into slumber.

She couldn’t sleep.

The day had been long and tiresome, as trying as it had been joyful. Cordelia’s eyesight had been restored and for that Misty could never be anything but thankful, though it seemed to cause no shortage of conflict for Cordelia herself. The way the older woman looked when their eyes met in the greenhouse… it made Misty’s heart just about rattle free of her ribcage. Then the moment seemed to float away and they fell back into the easy rhythm they had established over the previous few days, Cordelia teaching Misty the magical properties of plants and Misty practicing various spells and incantations. Misty relished the time spent with the headmistress, she loved learning more about her gifts and, more than that, she loved being close to Cordelia.

Even before the woman had regained her sight, they practically danced around one another as they worked in the greenhouse, each one anticipating the needs of the other without even thinking. Myrtle had mentioned it at one point, commenting on the grace with which she and Cordelia shifted and moved, and Misty had simply blushed. She couldn’t explain their connection how they just seemed to understand each other, even without sight, without words. She didn’t need to, though; she just wanted the opportunity to keep exploring it.

But that wasn’t why Misty sat, still as sentry, outside the headmistress’ room this night.

Their rhythm had been interrupted, shattered really, by the presence of one who didn’t belong there. Misty could feel Hank before she saw him; the air felt suddenly heavy, thick with the sharp scent of alcohol and something else Misty couldn’t seem to name. She knew that Cordelia was married – she had heard Hank spoken of, in whispers by the girls who wondered over his absence, in barbed tones by Fiona who took great joy in his dismissal. Cordelia hadn’t mentioned him and Misty thought better than to bring him up. She let it be.

But she couldn’t let it be any longer. He was there, too close to Cordelia as she shoved him back, her tone biting in a way that Misty had never heard. She knew the other woman was strong, resolute, so she refrained from rushing to her defense. She approached the two of them, looking Hank up and down for good measure. Something about him seemed vaguely familiar, but she didn’t have time to dwell on it as he was barking at her to leave them alone. She took a tentative step back, with no true intention of going any further than that, only to hear Cordelia tell her to stay, dismissing Hank in the same breath. She could feel the angry electrical charge in the air, it spiked with malice and raised Misty’s hackles.

She wanted to lash out, to drop the small bucket in her arms and fly at Hank, to burn him alive with nothing but the power of her gaze. But she instead waited, calm, eyes wide, as Cordelia cast him out herself.

“Your shit’s in a box in the closet.” Cordelia seemed to sink her teeth into each word, it send a shiver up Misty’s spine, “get it and then get out.”

Cordelia had maintained her composure until Hank disappeared into the house, then the tension seemed to fall from her body and Misty caught her as she swooned. The smaller woman was heavy in her arms, shuddering as light sobs wracked her slight frame. Misty wrapped her up, enveloping her completely as she cried. She relented only when she felt the slight pull against her. Cordelia stood under her own weight, still in the safe circle of Misty’s arms.

“I’m sorry.”

“There’s nothing to be sorry ‘bout, Miss Cordelia.” Misty pushed a stray tear from the apple of Cordelia’s cheek.

“You shouldn’t have had to be a part of that. I just, I didn’t want to be alone with him.”

Misty let her arms hang around the other woman’s waist, “Don’t even give it a second thought.”

“With everything that’s going on? This is the last thing I need right now. I just, I feel so drained.”

“Well, he was your husband, you loved him. Love him.” Misty tried to adopt an objective, logical approach; she would never try to color Cordelia’s feelings, even if every fiber of her being was on fire, burning with hatred for this man. He had raised his voice in anger against a woman, against Cordelia. Misty didn’t know much else, didn’t know what caused her friend to sever ties with him initially, but that was all she needed to know.

“Loved, I suppose,” Cordelia shrugged. “I know I felt something for him. Now I feel... nothing. And when I do feel something, it’s so angry. Bitter.”

“I’m sorry.” Misty relaxed her grip as Cordelia broke away to fiddle with a nearby orchid.

“Don’t be. It’s not your fault.” Cordelia almost laughed as she took the pithy velvet petal of the orchid and squeezed it between the pads of her fingers. “Actually, I called the lawyer the day after you came to us.”

“Oh?” Misty quirked an eyebrow up, unsure of what one should say in response. She was out of her depth.

“My visions,” the shorter woman lingered, her gaze trained on her fingers, “showed me truth. They threw light into the dark corners of the people I held dearest. I hated what they showed me: the depth of cruelty my mother held inside her, Hanks numerous indiscretions. I couldn’t touch anyone without witnessing, first hand, their truth, their cruelty, their darkness.” She paused and allowed a single tear to slide down her cheek. “Is it strange that I miss them, the visions?”

Misty placed a hand on the older woman’s shoulder and Cordelia covered it with her own.

“Every time I touched Hank I could see the other women, but I thought... if everyone has this darkness within them, maybe this was simply his version of it. Maybe we could work through it. Then I met you.”

Misty straightened as Cordelia’s eyes, one deep brown, one ice blue, caught her own.

“I touched your hands and felt your pain, your fear, your anger.”

“I’m so sorry.” Misty interrupted, unable to bear the thought of Cordelia experiencing the agony she had endured even for a few seconds.

“I know you are,” the headmistress laughed, “Isn’t that remarkable? You’re apologizing to me for being burned alive. _You_ are remarkable.”

“I’m not.” Misty shied back a few steps and played with the ends of the scarf tied in her hair.

“You are. And do you want to know why?”

Misty nodded almost imperceptibly.

“Because even in all that pain, that vengeful sadness, there was light. In the corners of your mind, there is light, there is love. Even with all you’ve been through, you still hold onto hope. You radiate goodness.”

Misty touched the edge of her finger to the corner of her eye, catching a tear before it could fall.

“You helped me understand that not everyone fosters darkness within them, that I deserve someone who lives in light.”

Misty couldn’t find any words that could possibly convey what she felt and so simply wrapped the other woman up in another warm embrace, hoping the contact could convey her sentiment. She felt Cordelia melt into her and stood that way for what could have been hours or the briefest of moments.

“I’m really putting these new eyes through their paces today.” Cordelia laughed pulling away once more to blot at her eyes.

Misty laughed as well and wiped her own eyes with her sleeve, unceremoniously.

“I like them. The brown is almost your color.”

“You remember the color of my eyes?”

“Of course I do!” Misty tried to toss off playfully, picking up the tin bucket of mud she’d discarded.

She sidled up to the workbench and set the bucket down. She picked up a set of shiny silver garden shears before crossing to a rather over-grown licorice plant. She glanced quickly back at the orchids, where Cordelia still lingered and smiled to herself.

Misty turned that scene over and over in her head, pausing occasionally at the sound of long rasping branches scraping at the house in the night breeze. Normally, the sound might insight fear, but lately she found it comforting, a reminder of sounds she might hear in her swamp. She allowed it to comfort her now as she sat, keeping silent watch. She was so lost in her own thoughts she didn’t even notice when the door to her left opened, silently.

“Misty? What are you doing out here?”

Misty snapped out of her trance and looked at the shadowy outline looming above her.

“Can’t sleep.”

“Alright, well, then why are you on the ground in the hallway?”

“Didn’t want to wake you.”

“Mm.” Cordelia hummed lightly. “Well, I’m up now, so why don’t you come back inside and we can be awake together.”

“I’m just fine here, Miss Cordelia. You go on back to bed.” Misty heard her voice come out more clipped than she had intended.

“Misty.” Her voice was gentle, tentative. “He’s not coming back.”

Misty turned her face up to the headmistress, leaning on the doorframe, a soft shape in the darkness. “You don’t know that.”

“He won’t. He wouldn’t. And in any case, I’d feel a lot better if you were with me either way.” Misty watched as Cordelia bent down to her and she felt the sudden soft weight of a hand on her shoulder. “Please?”

Misty let loose a sigh that rattled her ribs as she pushed off from the wall and slipped inside Cordelia’s room. She crossed to the bed and sat against the headboard on the side nearest the door. The only light in the room shone from a floor-to-ceiling window that faced the street. Moonlight spilled across the comforter as Cordelia rounded the bed and settled in next to Misty, back against the headboard.

“I appreciate the sentiment, I do,” Cordelia’s voice was low, placating, “but I can take care of myself.”

“I know that.” Misty tried to keep her tone cool and even. “I know you don’t need me to take care of you.”

“Is it strange to say that I like it? I like that you want to protect me.” Cordelia smiled and nudged Misty’s shoulder.

“Is it _charming_?” Misty teased, recalling their conversation so many years ago.

“It is. It’s charming. You’re charming.”

They sat in comfortable silence for a few moments.

“He won’t come back though. He’s smarter than that.” Cordelia tucked a piece of hair behind her ear. “And he knows there’s nothing here left for him.”

“Nothing.” Misty echoed, distracted.

“I don’t know if I ever really was.” She sighed lightly, “ _his_.”

“I can’t imagine you being anyone but your own.” Misty trained her eyes straight ahead, allowing her guard to lower slightly, warming to Cordelia’s touch at her side.

“That sounds so lonely.” Cordelia let her head drop to Misty’s shoulder. “I mean, it is. I feel like I’ve fought my whole to make sure I belong to no one but myself. But it’s lonely.”

“It is.” Misty agreed. “But important.”

They sat together in pregnant silence.

“I don’t know if I’m strong enough on my own anymore, though.” Cordelia raised her head from Misty’s shoulder and started playing with the hem of her slip.

“You’re the strongest person I know.”

Cordelia sputtered, incredulous. “I don’t know about that. I mean, I’d like to think I can hold my own...”

“You are though. I know you say that Fiona is the leader of the coven,” Misty rolled her eyes for good measure, “but it’s you. You’re the heart.”

“Then this heart is sick. I haven’t been doing such a great job lately. My mother killed Madison. _My mother_. And even though you brought her back, we still lost Queenie…”

“But you haven’t given up, have you?” Misty countered. She couldn’t make out the details of Cordelia’s face in the darkness, but was able to see her eyes, glinting in the moonlight. “You’re still fighting for this coven.”

“Misty,” Cordelia’s voice shook slightly, “I don’t–” she trailed off, seemingly at a loss for words.

Misty shifted to face her companion, taking Cordelia’s hand in her own. “Sometimes true strength is not in the winning, but in the unwillingness to give up.”

In that moment, in the moonlight, both of them sat silent and still, letting the moment land. Then Cordelia leaned in slightly, lifting her free hand to trace the line of Misty’s jaw. The swamp witch shivered under the attention and Cordelia drew even closer. She paused, so close, and Misty swallowed hard before closing the distance between them, lips meeting, soft and sweet.

It wasn’t a first kiss. Or it was, but it didn’t feel that way. Misty’s heart beat against her ribs and she found her hands tangled in the hair along the nape of Cordelia’s neck, drawing her ever closer. It was almost like drowning, but there was fire there too. Misty felt Cordelia shift even closer and their bodies pressed into one another. She was vaguely aware of the need for air when her lips parted and she lost track of all awareness save the taste of Cordelia’s mouth, the softness of her lips, the sensation of tongues and teeth, the wanton need between them.

She felt almost possessive. She felt suddenly possessed.

This woman, this pillar of strength, who belonged to no one, was giving herself over to Misty’s care and attentions. Her hands wandered and her lips followed suit, burning a trail down Cordelia’s neck and along her collarbone, only to crash back to her mouth in a blaze of desire. Cordelia had nipped just below her jaw and was now grasping at the fabric of Misty’s poppy red sweater, pushing it down and off her shoulders, pulling the straps of her dress with it. Misty sighed into the sweet sensation of deft hands tracing the skin of her shoulders, raking across the bare blade of her shoulders and down her back. It felt like fire, her skin blazing everywhere Cordelia touched, every place the woman’s lips met her skin, but the fire was pleasant. This is how the Cajun would want to burn alive, wrapped up in someone she cared so deeply for, engulfed in ecstasy.

She felt her breath hitch in her throat as Cordelia’s hot mouth found the sensitive skin of her breast.

“Are you,” Cordelia brought her face up to meet Misty, the hunger in her eyes flaring as she replaced mouth with hand, lithe fingers splayed lightly. “Is this alright?”

“This is more than alright,” Misty practically panted, stunned by the sensory overload of Cordelia’s wandering hands and general proximity. “I’m,” her mouth opened and closed again and she imagined herself similar to a literal fish out of water, “I’m just a bit overwhelmed.”

Cordelia started to pull her hand from Misty’s burning flesh.

“Don’t you dare,” Misty chastised, playfully and staid Cordelia’s hand. “I thought we might, well...” Misty trailed off, unable to find the right words.

She ultimately let Cordelia’s hand drop and rose from the bed. Bathed in moonlight, she crossed her arms and pulled the light shift dress over her head, letting it pool on the floor. It was dark in the room, but still light enough for Cordelia to take in the sight of her, bare but for her underwear, before lying, prostrate, on the bed. Cordelia sat, agape, and Misty was thankful, for the hundredth time that day that Cordelia could see. “I thought we might just slow it down a bit.”

“I’ve got to be honest, you’re sending a bit of a mixed message.” Cordelia replied, and Misty could tell she was smiling.

“I want you. Like I never wanted anythin’ before,” Misty explained, watching as Cordelia slowly rose and mirrored her earlier actions, allowing her own slip to drop to the floor, “and I want as much of you as you’re willing to give. But I don’t want to rush. You deserve the time it takes to love you, not just some storm of hands an’ fire.”

“Jesus,” Cordelia breathed as she slid back onto the bed. “How are you real? My swamp witch, with the poet’s soul.”

“I just want to you to have everything you deserve. I’ve always wanted that for you,” The Cajun slipped her arm under Cordelia who laid her head against Misty’s chest, sighing deeply, “I’m just thankful I’m finally able to be someone who can give it to you.”

“You’re all I’ve ever wanted. I knew the moment I dropped all those books on you.” They both laughed, “I would have followed you anywhere that day.”

“And now it’s my turn to follow you.”

Cordelia turned in their embrace and kissed a trail down Misty’s sternum before returning to her lips. The fire hadn’t cooled, but now it smoldered rather than flaming up to consume them both. Misty allowed her head to loll back and threaded her fingers into blonde silk as it fell around her in a curtain. They kissed until their lips were bruised and pink, until they could map the taste of one another’s mouths completely.

Misty gasped as Cordelia’s hands once again found the soft skin of her breasts. The wild witch arched into expert hands and her eyes went wide when fingers were replaced with lips, with teeth, with tongue. Cordelia lit small fires along her chest as she moved to trace a path across her stomach and down, down to the kiss hollow of her hips before sliding an exploratory finger under the waistband of Misty’s underwear, laying lips where fabric met flesh. Their eyes met and hunger blazed, echoing between them. Misty licked her lips and nodded wordless ascent in nervous anticipation.

It had been a long day, but with any luck, it would be an even longer night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: FINALLY

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for taking the time to read!


End file.
